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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613034">let me rest in pieces</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlemint/pseuds/charlemint'>charlemint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>let me rest in pieces and let the rest piece me together [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fighting, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, PTSD-like symptoms, Past Abuse, Season/Series 11, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:14:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>34,273</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlemint/pseuds/charlemint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey’s hasn't always made the best decisions in life, but after the incident with Terry, he knows he has to make a hard one, and soon. He’s an adult now, and he can’t keep letting his dad be his own personal boogeyman, putting a rift between him and the man (and family) he loves.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the decision is suddenly taken out of his hands, Mickey has to deal with a whole new slew of problems, including his feelings about a father whose shadow he’s yet to get out from under.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>let me rest in pieces and let the rest piece me together [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>216</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mickey is just shy of turning ten years old. His face feels hot and tight as he stands in the summer sun, out on the only functional baseball field closest to the back of the yards. There’s about a dozen other kids his age around him, all dressed in ill-fitting little league uniforms. Their jerseys are all frayed at the seams or faded in weird places from years of having to reuse them and Mickey is nearly swimming in his. His helmet makes him look like a bobble head, and despite being around the average age of all the kids, he’s the smallest of the group. <b><br/>
</b></p><p>On the first day of their meet-ups, Mickey was met with a couple of snide remarks from a couple of the bigger kids, thinking he was easy pickings. They’d called him a shrimp, and pointed out his dirt caked face. Tried to start a rumor that he was raised by wolves and lived in a dumpster. And Mickey had decked the cruel grin right off the biggest kid of the group’s face. He’d punched him right in his fat little nose, giving him a shiner that lasted most of the season. </p><p>The kid, whose name Mickey couldn’t be bothered to remember, hadn’t even fought back, he’d just cried and cried until Mickey threatened him with another black eye if he so much breathed a word about it to any of the adults. </p><p>It was Terry, who had taught him that. One of the first lessons he remembered his father teaching him and his brothers: find the biggest motherfucker in the room, take him down, and no one will fuck with you. </p><p>When questioned about the bruise, the kid had made up a story about a pitch going accidentally awry, all the while avoiding Mickey’s eye watching from a few feet away. And that was how the south side menace, Mickey Milkovich, had really started.</p><p>Joining the little league is something his mother had come up with. She’d managed to scrape up some cash, just enough to let him join and cover the basic expenses. She’d told him it was an early birthday present, and Mickey was just glad to have something that Terry couldn’t take away and pawn off later. </p><p>They’ve been practicing for a few weeks now, and Mickey’s skin is tan and a little red from the summer sun, his freckles standing out over the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks. His hands and face are smudged with dirt, they almost always are, even off the field, and Mickey knows that all the other kids think he’s dirty and gross, even if they’d never say it to his face now. </p><p>The adults aren’t any better. They avoid him and pull their kids away when they don’t have to interact on the field. His mom always stands a little off to the side, away from the other moms as she chain smokes. Sometimes he catches part of the other parents' conversations, about Laura Milkovich, about just a baby having babies. Whatever that means. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t care about the other kids, or the parents with the upturned noses, or what they think anyway. </p><p>Unfortunately, this is Mickey’s last day ever on the team, even if he didn’t know it when he first stepped onto the field. He wants to pitch, it’s his favorite position when they play, even if he’s admittedly only okay at it. He throws too hard, he’s been told. He’s not very accurate. He sends the ball flying more like a punch than a throw. </p><p>The coach keeps putting him out in the field, though, which Mickey thinks is boring as hell, and he hates the way the sun beats on the back of his neck. As the day wears on, he gets more and more agitated over it. His agitation only fades a little bit when he’s off the field and called up to bat toward the end of practice. Beats being out in the field anway.</p><p>He hits the ball on the first try, and Mickey’s so excited he flings the bat and sprints for the base. He’s running as fast as his short little legs can carry him, but it’s not fast enough. And the first baseman, a lanky, blond kid two years older than Mickey, is holding the ball in his glove, waiting to tag him. Mickey skids in the dirt, creating a dust cloud around him when he stops. The kid is quick to tag him with the ball, a little too hard on the shoulder, and Mickey’s so mad he does the first thing his little kid brain thinks of. He pulls down his pants and pisses all over first base and the other kid’s cleats.</p><p>He can hear the parents watching on yelling from the bleachers, the kids around him just as surprised and calling for the coach. When the first baseman jumps back and starts to yell at him, Mickey grins and flips him off. He thinks he can hear someone laughing a little ways off, cutting through all the commotion. He looks up, catching sight of flaming red hair beneath a dark blue helmet. He squints against the blazing sun in his eyes, trying to get a good look. But then he’s being yanked off the field before he can, his pants still around his ankles.</p><p>Mickey’s sitting in the front passenger seat as his mom drives them home. His skin and clothes are filthy. His dark hair is itchy and caked in mud that will remain there until the water works at home again. Mickey’s in a good mood, though, even if the coach had told him and his mom that Mickey was banned from the team. Mickey thinks seeing the shock on everyone’s faces was worth it. </p><p>His mom hasn’t really said a word to him since they’d gotten in the car, merely cracking a window as she smokes. The radio in the car is broken, so Mickey entertains himself by pushing the button up and down on the power windows. He lets the warm wind whip him in the face for a few minutes, then rolls the window up, repeating the motion every half mile.</p><p>When they pull up at the house, Mickey grabs for the door handle before his mom even puts the car in park, nearly buzzing to tell his brother’s about what he’d done. His mom stops him though, reaching out and grabbing him by the arm to get his attention, and he turns with a scowl. </p><p><em>“What?”</em> He whines, wiggling back into his seat. </p><p>Laura stares at him, not saying anything to him at first. Her blue eyes are lined dark with makeup, and her jet black hair is wild and untamed around her face. Her expression twists into something that maybe Mickey recognizes. It’s similar to the face she’d made when, on Christmas morning, she realized most of the presents she had gotten her kids were missing. It’s the same face Mickey makes years later when, standing in front of the Gallagher porch, Ian tells him they’re breaking up. </p><p>He doesn’t understand the look, but either way, it’s gone as fast as it appears. </p><p><em>“Nothing, Mikhailo,”</em> she sighs, finally, and her face schools into a look of exasperated amusement, though her thickly lined eyes stay a little wet. He gives her an impatient look when she releases his arm.</p><p><em>“You dirty little rat,”</em> she calls him fondly. She licks her thumb and rubs it against Mickey’s cheek despite his protests. <em>“You really are your father’s son.” </em></p><p>When she pulls away, Mickey beams proudly at her.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <em>“Mickey Milkovich!” </em>
</p><p>Mickey’s eyes snap open. And instantly slam shut again against the morning light. He groans at the ache the bright sun leaves behind his eyes, and he presses the meat of his palms hard against his burning lids. Half awake and dazed, Mickey rolls from his side and onto his back, bumping into the solid form of his husband, still quietly snoring beside him. </p><p>Slowly, he pulls one hand away and lifts his head. He peers over Ian’s shoulder, blinking rapidly, trying to focus enough to read the clock fixed above the bed. When he reads the time, he groans loudly, flopping backwards. He reaches behind his head and drags his pillow over his face. </p><p>He keeps it there and grumbles into it. There is no way in hell Mickey is going to be awake at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday. </p><p>He listens to his surroundings for a second, and when there’s no more sound around him aside from Ian’s heavy breathing, he relaxes enough to let himself begin to drift off again. He doesn’t register the thump of stomping feet coming up the stairs, the sound muffled by the pillow, until it’s too late. </p><p>“Mickey!” A shriek cuts through the quiet. The accordion door of their bedroom is ripped open. </p><p>In retrospect, he should’ve known better than to lull himself into a false sense of security in this house.</p><p>He’s still dazed, but Mickey’s quick to blindly pull the covers over his and Ian’s naked forms. Even if it is a little late.</p><p>“Oh, Jesus!” He hears a repulsed groan from the doorway.  </p><p>They’re both restless sleepers in the summer heat, and more often than not one or both of them ends up with an ass or a dick out by morning. And Mickey usually wouldn’t care, it’s their room to sleep buck ass naked in if they want to. But Franny’s taken to opening the door and waking them up too some mornings now that she’s out of school officially. They’d learned their lesson the hard way. </p><p>The shouting has woken up his husband, who jerks out of his sleep. He fumbles around, half lucid, accidentally throwing an elbow into Mickey’s side so hard he briefly loses his breath. </p><p>“Mickey, what the hell did you do?”</p><p>“Gonna have to be more specific Debs,” Ian croaks from beside Mickey before Mickey can react. “Mickey’s got a laundry list of stuff he does that makes<em> me</em> wanna yell first thing in the morning,” Ian adds dryly.</p><p>Leave it to Ian to wake up with enough brain function to jump at the chance of being an asshole. Beneath the sheets, Mickey kicks him hard in the ankle.</p><p>“Will you both shut the fuck up,” Mickey wheezes, throwing the pillow covering his face down into his lap. He rubs at his aching side, eyeballing Debbie. “What the fuck did I do? I’ve been <em>asleep.</em> Like a normal fucking person.”</p><p>And maybe he sounds a little whiny, like a kid who doesn’t want to wake up for school. </p><p>The image of his mom jumps to his thoughts suddenly. She’d sometimes tickle his feet until he woke up to get ready for school--when he did go. Or when he got older, she shoved at him annoyedly until he snaps that he’s fucking up and to leave him alone. Sometimes, for week long stretches, she wouldn’t be around to wake him up at all. </p><p>He sighs and rubs at his face, wondering why the hell he’s thinking about that now. </p><p>“My truck, asshole. The tail light’s busted!” Debbie yells again, and Mickey can already feel a headache brewing at his temples. </p><p>Beside him, he hears Ian plead into his pillow, <em>“Debbie please, stop yelling.”</em></p><p>Mickey’s brows pinch as he stares narrow-eyed over at her. She’s in their room, hovering over the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips, looking thunderous. The fact that she’s in their room at all, makes him bristle. He’d put up a thousand “Do not enter” signs in various degrees of threatening language if he thought they’d have any sort of effect. In his mind, this is his and Ian’s space only, even if it’s only divided from the house by a shabby folding door. </p><p>“And why are you screeching at<em> me</em> about it?” Mickey grumbles, his jaw cracking when a yawn forces its way out. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sits up, the blankets pooling at his hips. </p><p>“Uh, oh, I don’t know Mickey. Maybe because you monopolized my truck all day yesterday and it only makes complete sense that you’d have something to do with it?” Debbie snaps. </p><p>Mickey’s blinks slowly, the cogs of his brain screeching in his ears as they rush to catch up. Images of yesterday flash behind his eyes; Ian, errands, Sandy, <em>Terry.</em> Ah, right. </p><p>“Alright, Raggedy Ann. What do you want me to do about it?” Mickey asks grumpily. </p><p>“I want you to fix it, obviously. I can’t drive around with a broken tail light. I already texted Lip about it and he said he’s got the stuff to replace it.”</p><p><em>“Okay,”</em> Mickey stresses, his hands flailing in front of him impatiently. “So why are you here? Just go bring it over!”</p><p>“You broke it, you bring it!”</p><p>“The fuck?”</p><p>“Sandy and I are taking Franny out to breakfast. We have shit to do after so it better be fixed by the time we get back,” Debbie huffs, stomping out of the room, and getting the final word. Mickey flips her off when she doesn’t close the door behind her. He counts her steps as she storms back down the stairs, until they fade off.</p><p>He groans and rubs at his tired eyes. He starts to lean backwards, ready to just go back to sleep, </p><p>“Chop, chop Milkovich!” She yells up the stairs, like she fucking knows. Mickey drops his hands and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. </p><p>With Debbie finally out of their hair, the room is silent again, but Mickey’s ears are ringing. </p><p>“Your sister’s a bitch,” he grunts around another chest deep yawn. </p><p>“Mm, yeah.” Ian hums, then quickly asks, “How’d you break the light?” Ian’s eyes are heavy as he sits up next to Mickey. His knees bend under the blanket, long arms folding over them. He’s sporting a very severe case of bedhead. </p><p>“Terry.” </p><p>Ian’s looking at him blankly, like he’s slow to process. His face is a little puffy from sleep, pillow creases running along one side. It makes Mickey want to slip back under the covers and into his arms. </p><p>Ian takes in a slow breath when his brain seems to catch up, inhaling like he’s about to say something. But the loud bang of the front door slamming shut cuts him off. </p><p><em>“Fuckin’--“</em> Mickey growls, throwing the covers back. He hoists himself begrudgingly out of bed. </p><p>He’s fully awake now, and whatever Ian was about to say, Mickey’s sure he doesn’t want to listen to it anyway. </p><p>As Mickey starts pulling his clothes out of the dresser, he hears the soft impact of Ian falling back into bed. Mickey turns and looks at him while his husband curls up, bringing the comforter around his shoulders. Mickey raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“Not coming with me, sleepyface?” Mickey asks, pulling a dark, sleeveless shirt over his head. </p><p>“‘S too early,” Ian mumbles, muffled by the blanket around his head. </p><p>“You’re up anyway.” And Mickey doesn’t whine about it, but he wants to. “It’s your fucking brother.”</p><p>“Need me to protect you from Lip or something?” Ian shoots back, and Mickey makes a face. </p><p>“Fuck no. I kicked his ass when we were kids, I could do it again if I had to,” Mickey grins over at Ian. </p><p><em>“Love</em> how kicking his ass is what you immediately default to,” Ian snorts. “So, you’ve kicked Lip’s ass, you’ve kicked my ass. I’m guessing now Debbie’s next in the line of Gallaghers?” </p><p>“Nah, I don’t hit girls. Even banshees like your sister.”</p><p>“How chivalrous of you.”</p><p>“I got manners. I just treat people like they deserve to be treated,” Mickey clicks his tongue at Ian, who chuckles at him through his blanket cocoon. “I respect women.”</p><p>“Sure ya do, Mick.” And Mickey knows he means nothing by it. Mickey’s never done anything to purposely target a woman, unless they’d done him wrong first--like Sammi, for example. That fucking bitch. </p><p>“Definitely treated me like I deserve last night, now I just wanna be lazy,” Ian mumbles at him, sinking himself further under the blankets. He keeps looking at Mickey though with a little smirk on his face. He knows he’s being a little shit.</p><p>Mickey huffs while he zips up the fly of his light wash jeans, buttoning the top. “Like you did any of the work,” he mumbles. He makes his way over to the bed to where Ian’s curled himself up into a loose ball. </p><p>Mickey’s admittedly a little jealous, wishing he was tucked up with him. Normally Ian is up and at ‘em around this time on any other day, but Sunday is their lazy day together. They usually have a late night on Saturday. Then they get to start slow on Sunday, sometimes with a leisurely fuck. But sometimes they just curl around each other until the need to piss becomes too urgent, and then they bicker about who gets to use the upstairs bathroom first. </p><p>Mickey crawls across the bed and over to Ian, who makes a soft sound when Mickey’s lips find a spot to press against, right next to his ear. </p><p>“Hey. Remember when you asked me to bang your sister right before our wedding?” Mickey asks, just to be a shit right back. He’s made it a point to make Ian regret his existence ever since that day. </p><p>Honestly, it was in the vows. </p><p>He digs around under the blankets and manages to find Ian’s feet, wiggling his fingers against the undersides. He cackles when Ian yelps and kicks out at him. He struggles under the blankets, shooting a hand out when he manages to detangle himself to smack at Mickey’s chest. </p><p>“Get the hell out of here, Milkovich,” Ian murmurs, though he sounds fond, and instead of letting Mickey go, he tugs at the front of his shirt making Mickey topple over. And Mickey figures Lip can wait a little longer as he searches out his husband’s lips, morning breath and all.</p><p>--</p><p>It’s late morning when Mickey backs into Lip’s garage. He shifts Debbie’s truck into park and cuts the engine, jumping out just as Lip is walking in through the side door.</p><p>“Hey, Mick. No Ian?” Lip greets, glancing around. </p><p>“Nah. Lazy ass is keeping the Sunday tradition alive without me,” Mickey grunts, leaning against the side of the truck. </p><p>Lip’s already getting ready to set to work the moment he reaches Mickey, grabbing a tool box off his work bench, and looking over the smashed tail light. </p><p>Mickey shifts on his feet. He pulls out a half squished pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lights up, just for something to do. </p><p>It’s a little awkward. Mickey can count the number of times he’s spent with Lip alone on one hand, even after taking up a permanent residence at the Gallagher house. </p><p>“Open up the tailgate?” Lip asks, hunched over as he places the toolbox onto the cement floor, digging through it. Mickey pushes himself up and walks over to the back of the truck, pulling the tailgate open, letting it fall and stop on its hinges with a metallic clang.</p><p>“Need any help?” Mickey finds himself asking, even as he’s moving to the side and out of Lip’s way.</p><p>“Nah, should be a quick fix actually. Got some spare parts still from the last time I fixed it up,” Lip explains, pulling a screwdriver out of the toolbox. He makes quick work of the screws, twisting and pulling them out, and wiggles the busted light with his other hand, until it comes free. Mickey doesn’t know shit about cars, but this looks easy enough. He’s not sure why he even has to be here, beyond the fact that the ginger Gallaghers have a petty streak a mile long.</p><p>“I was surprised when you actually pulled up. Debbie texted me saying you’d be here a couple hours ago,” Lip says idly as he detaches the wires connecting the light to the truck. </p><p>Mickey grunts and takes a slow drag of his cigarette. She probably texted Lip before she even came in the room and gave Mickey a hearing impairment. And maybe he wasn’t that quick to leave.</p><p>But, also,</p><p>“Had to take a couple detours,” Mickey explains. “Felt like there was a cop on every street corner.”</p><p>Mickey’s never had a legal license, only carrying a state ID because he needed it. If he got stopped because of the taillight, without a license, while on probation, Mickey’d be properly fucked. </p><p>“Gentrification’s a bitch,” Lip shrugs.</p><p>“This place is turning into yuppie central, and they act like the police do fuck all. It fucking sucks.”</p><p>“Uh huh. Gonna write a song about it, Mick?” Lip asks, tossing the old part to the side of the garage. He grabs the new taillight, and Mickey can tell there’s something just slightly off about it. The red is just a slightly different shade, the shape of the outside plastic just a little bit thinner, like a cheap overseas knock-off. Whatever, it’s not Mickey’s fucking truck. Debbie’s just gonna have to deal. </p><p>The question picks up Mickey’s attention, though, his eyebrows creasing in the middle in confusion.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“You know,” Lip starts, waving a hand his way. “You’re looking more and more like the frontman of an emo band these days. Gonna write a song about it? About how your parents don’t understand you and your hometown sucks?” </p><p>“Fuck off,” Mickey scowls, running a hand over his grown out hair self-conciously. </p><p>If he’s gonna keep getting shit about it, maybe he’ll have to break down and shave it off. Then they’d have no choice but to stare at his ugly as fuck, dented skull instead. See how they like that. </p><p>Lip merely smirks at that, and a silence falls between them, but it isn’t an uncomfortable one. </p><p>Weirdly, Mickey thinks that maybe, if past circumstances were different, if Lip wasn’t such a know it all asshole all the time, they could maybe be friends.</p><p>“Speaking of sucky parents,” Lip says out of the blue, and Mickey quickly takes back everything. </p><p>He resists the urge to cringe, already knowing where this is going. Fucking Gallaghers and their constant checking in. “Ian told me about your run in with Terry. Sounds like he’s as pleasant as ever.”</p><p>“Yeah. Gonna head to the store after this and pick him up a #1 Dad mug and throw it through his fucking living room window.” Mickey rants, tossing his finished cigarette to the concrete, snubbing it out with the toe of his boot a little too hard.</p><p>Lip pushes a quick breath through his nose, rubbing a hand over his mouth.</p><p>“He do this?” Lip asks, while picking up the screwdriving off the tailgate and twisting the screws back in.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“This too?” Lip asks, pointing to a small hole in the bumper, just below the other taillight.</p><p>“Fuck.” Mickey groans, frowning at the hole, the paint chipped all around. It’s pretty obvious what it is if you know what you’re looking at. “You can’t fix it?”</p><p>“Guess I can,” Lip shrugs and flips the driver around in his hand, scratching the side of his head with the plastic handle. “Gonna have to wait until the shop’s open though so I can weld it. And that’s if you can manage to convince Debbie to let you take the truck again to get it there.”</p><p>Mickey curls his bottom lip in, dragging his tongue across it. “Fuckin’ doubt it. Gonna have to make something up.”</p><p>“Good luck,” Lip shrugs again, twisting to toss the screwdriver back into the toolbox. “Anyway, you’re all set. Remember to keep it under twenty-five if you’re going through the neighborhood.”</p><p>Mickey snorts and grabs the tailgate, slamming it back up into place. “You the fuckin’ neighborhood police now? Gotta worry about another brother-in-law working with the pigs, Phillip?” Mickey quips. </p><p>He hears Lip’s dry laugh behind him, then the ruckus of metal on metal when he moves his stuff back onto the workbench. “I’m sure one is embarrassing enough for a Milkovich.” </p><p>Mickey hums in agreement, and when the conversation lulls into another silence, he takes that as a sign to head back out. </p><p>“Well, thanks,” he mutters as he steps to the driver’s side, pulling the door open.</p><p>“Hey, Mickey?” Lip calls, and Mickey pauses, halfway into the cab. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>There’s a brief pause, then,</p><p>“Ian’s probably not gonna say anything, but he’s kinda worried about you, yanno, with Terry.”</p><p>Mickey blows out a breath, sliding slowly back out of the truck, and turns to face Lip. Lip’s standing with his hands in his pockets, pushed in deep. His face is neutral though, staring straight at Mickey. If Mickey had to guess, because he’s never experienced it himself, it’s the look of a brother looking out for his brother. </p><p>“He’s always worrying about something,” Mickey drawls dismissively. “I got it handled.”</p><p>Lip doesn’t reply for a breath, but Mickey can see the wheels turning.</p><p>“Sure, yeah,” Lip says finally, sliding his hands out of his jeans pockets. He scratches at the short, cropped hair at the back of his head. “Yeah, that’s Ian. A lot of it could be easily resolved if he just talked it out more, you know. Trying to get details outta him is like pulling teeth, so I can only guess what’s really going on with him at any point in time.”</p><p>“I guess.” Mickey frowns. “You going somewhere with this?” He adds, impatiently. </p><p>Lip’s eyes shoot to the back of the truck, and Mickey knows he’s looking at the bullet hole in the bumper. </p><p>“He’s been through a lot. You both have, I guess,” Lips says, though he’s suspiciously quick to add, “I only know what Ian decides to share, which really isn’t much, like I said. I know he worries a lot about you, and it’s mostly inconsequential shit, like relationship stuff or bitching when you skip your day to take out the trash.”</p><p>Mickey’s frown deepens, about to tell Lip to<em> get to the fucking point</em> again, when he continues to speak. </p><p>“If Ian’s gonna worry, I want him to keep worrying about the normal shit. Well, normal shit for what you two got going on,” Lip’s gaze cuts back to Mickey, the blue of his eyes, a few shades lighter than Mickey’s, is intense under the light coming from the open garage door. </p><p>“Milkovich shit, he doesn’t need to get involved in,” he adds, and Mickey’s lips press thin. </p><p>“Yeah, got it,” Mickey snaps through his teeth, the muscles in his jaw starting to ache from how hard biting down. Leave it to a Gallagher not to waste an opportunity to look down on him for being a Milkovich. Like Mickey has a choice.</p><p>“I know you care about Ian, but if you’re out there pissing your dad off that bad, Terry and his bloodhounds don’t need to be following your trail back to the house.” </p><p>A heavy weight is starting to settle in his chest the longer they stand there, and Mickey’s suddenly aware how hard his lungs are struggling. He takes in a sharp, deep breath through his nose, trying to play it off. But Lip’s always been smarter than he looks, Mickey thinks, and his brother-in-law gives him a brief glance over. </p><p>“You sure you got this?”</p><p>And Mickey hates the brief moment of doubt when he’s being asked point blank. </p><p>He doubles down, straightening his posture as his holds on tighter to the truck’s door handle, his knuckles turning white.</p><p>“Yeah, Philip, I do,” Mickey grits out, sniffing hard and thumbing at his nose. </p><p>It feels like a stand off, and Mickey doesn’t have the upper hand. He doesn’t actually know what Terry plans to do, if he makes good on his threats at all. He does, however, know he’d go down swinging with every thing he has, to keep Ian safe. To keep Terry’s hands from tainting what they have, again. And he doesn’t need to explain that to anyone.</p><p>Lip nods slowly, holding Mickey’s gaze for a moment longer until he seems satisfied enough to break their stare down. </p><p>He waves Mickey off, casually like the whole conversation never happened. </p><p>“Good. See ya, Mick.”</p><p>--</p><p>After that Mickey starts carrying his gun on him. </p><p>He doesn’t want to admit that maybe Lip had gotten into his head a little bit, but maybe Lip had gotten into his head a little bit. </p><p>He only does it when he’s out of Ian’s line of sight, slipping it into the back of his jeans, a heavy and cold weight at the base of his spine. It gives him comfort in a way, having it there. Some people have favorite fuzzy blankets, some have a pile of stuffed animals propped up in the corner of their bed. Mickey Milkovich has weapons. A means to protect himself.</p><p>He knows the walls he’s carefully built around himself are cracking. Have been falling apart since the day he laid eyes on that freckly red head at the Kash and Grab. </p><p>He gets away with it for a couple of days. </p><p>Mickey’s in the upstairs bathroom brushing his teeth after dinner. He always does it fast and quick, but thorough. It’s never been his favorite grooming habit, but he does it every morning, and lately at night too after Ian convinces him to. He always brushes too hard. He can hear Ian in his head telling him to ease up when he spits and there’s pink in the sink. </p><p>He swishes a handful of water around and spits it out, flushing out his mouth. Then he looks up into the mirror. His gaze moves to his hairline, moving the locks around with his fingers. It’s becoming a habit lately, checking out his reflection now that his hair’s grown longer. He squints when he thinks he sees a bit of silver, hidden away under thick black. His fingertips run along a strand of gray.</p><p>“Hey there, quicksilver,” he hears Ian chuckle, squeezing into the bathroom behind him. Mickey immediately pushes away from the sink, about to swing around. But Ian’s already crowding him, lips pressing to the nape of Mickey’s neck as his arms box him in, gripping the sink in front of them. </p><p>“Hey,” Mickey greets, clearing his throat. He steps forward so Ian doesn’t press against his back, his hips digging into the sink so hard he’s sure it’s gonna leave a bruise. “Wassup?”</p><p>“Missed you this morning. Woke up nearly poking a hole in the sheet and you were already out of bed,” Ian hums, speaking between peppered kisses over the exposed skin above Mickey’s collar. Ian had voiced his surprise earlier too when he came downstairs after finding the bed empty of his husband, discovering Mickey and Franny slumped on the couch in front of the tv, watching a Transformers cartoon.</p><p>Mickey had already been up and staring at the ceiling when he heard Franny trying--and failing--to quietly make her way down the stairs at 6 am. </p><p>He’s been sleeping fitfully the last few nights, waking up with a tight chest and anxiety souring in his throat. His attempts to sleep were fruitless, so he decided to just hang out with his niece instead for an hour, until the rest of the house woke up. </p><p>“That right?” Mickey mutters, glancing at Ian’s reflection in front of him. “And you just let me suffer through Franny shrieking <em>‘Autobots, rollout!’</em> all morning instead?”</p><p>“Mhm. Pretty sure it wasn't just her saying it though.” Mickey can feel the smile pressed against his neck. “But, I thought maybe…” Ian trails, suddenly pressing his hips up against Mickey’s ass. </p><p>They both freeze at the same time. Mickey feels the skin warmed steel digging into his back, and Ian obviously feels it too, pressed into his abdomen as he stands against Mickey’s back. </p><p>“What the hell,” Ian frowns. His hands push off the sink and he moves away from Mickey. He grabs the back of Mickey’s shirt and yanks it up. His confusion is immediate. “Why do you have a piece on you? You’re in the house.” </p><p>Mickey pulls his shirt out of Ian’s grip and turns to face him. He can feel his face heating up, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Ian just looks puzzled, and a little bit put off. Mickey doesn’t know what to say. What would Ian do if he told him it was just something that made him feel better? </p><p>Would he think he was being a pussy? </p><p>Write it off as just another<em> thug habit? </em></p><p>Would he start to worry about Terry like Mickey’s worried?</p><p>None of it sounds appealing, so Mickey plays it cool and shrugs it off. He skirts around Ian to exit the bathroom and heads back into their room. </p><p>“Was gonna go out,” Mickey lies, when he feels Ian watching him by the door. </p><p>“Go out where?”</p><p>“I don’t know, out for a drink. Kev says the Alibi’s open again.”</p><p>“And you're carrying because he’s rebranded the Alibi into a western saloon and you wanna fit the theme?” Ian snarks. He keeps with the charade, resting his chin in the bend of his thumb and forefinger, looking Mickey over. “You know, the idea of you in a cowboy hat is really doing it for me.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Would’ve thought you an assless chaps kinda guy.”</p><p>“Were you planning on going alone?” Ian redirects, catching Mickey off guard. </p><p>“I guess,” Mickey says hesitantly. “You don’t drink.” He adds as he grabs his wallet off the dresser.</p><p>“I drink.” Ian huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. </p><p>“You don’t drink like I drink,” Mickey shoots back, and he feels bad about it immediately after. </p><p>He obviously knows the reason Ian can’t drink like he used to, like he wants to. Mickey remembers reading all about it as he went through every article he could get his hands on, when Ian was first diagnosed. </p><p>Mickey slips his wallet into his back pocket, and when he sees the way Ian’s face falls, Mickey curses at himself. He’s being a fucking dick for no reason. </p><p>“‘S got a silver lining to it, you’ll still have a couple brain cells left after I’ve drank away all of mine,” Mickey tries, bridging the gap between him and Ian, then, until he’s pressed close enough to smell the faded scent of Ian’s cologne. </p><p>“Let’s go out. It’s been a while, man,” he adds, as an afterthought. One he kind of really likes.</p><p>Ian’s frown deepens and he looks away, staring off at someone in the corner of their room. </p><p>“Don’t wanna bring down your good time being a lightweight,” Ian mutters stubbornly, his jaw shifting until his chin juts out slightly. By now, Mickey’s very well versed in dealing with The Chin, so it doesn’t deter him. It spurs him on.</p><p>“Bein’ a lightweight just makes you a cheap date, which is great for me cause I’m broke as <em>fuck,</em> man,” Mickey grins, and Ian squints at him. </p><p>“C’mon Gallagher. Me, you, a couple of brewskis. Since when has that never been followed up by a good time?” Mickey asks, a hand sliding up Ian’s chest to play with the collar of Ian’s t-shirt idly. He watches Ian’s face, hoping Ian isn’t going to make him work for it too hard. </p><p>Ian raises his eyebrows, tilting his head in a sort of yeah, maybe expression. And maybe their minds go to the exact same place, because Mickey’s suddenly overcome by just how similar Ian looks now to back then, with his buzzed hair and t-shirts and that smile he has on his face when he turns to Mickey and says, “I don’t think Kev would approve of shotgunning beers at the bar.”</p><p>A smile creeps across Mickey’s face, mirroring Ian’s own. </p><p>“Fuck the Alibi, then. You feel like being a couple of queens reminiscing about the old days? Head over to the dugouts?” Mickey says, “You can pitch and I’ll catch,” he adds, wiggling his brows playfully.</p><p>“Cowboys, baseball euphemisms. We’re really doing great at not being gay stereotypes,” Ian snorts. </p><p>“Saddle up, bitch. Hit it or quit it.”</p><p>Ian scoffs at him, but the tension in his face is gone. </p><p>“You don’t think we’re too old to be doing that shit?” Ian asks, shyly dropping his gaze to look down at Mickey’s hand resting on his chest. “I mean, the last time we hung out there…”</p><p>“What-fucking-ever, that’s like, our spot forever man. They’re gonna have to bury our asses there when we kick it.”</p><p>Ian looks up at him then, gaze soft. </p><p>“That was almost romantic, Mick.”</p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes, feeling a dull heat rising up the sides of his neck and tips of his ears. Fucking Gallagher. “Whatever, man.”</p><p>He leans up, pressing a kiss to Ian’s lips. A low hum rumbles in his throat when Ian holds the sides of his face in his hands to keep him in place. Tattooed fingers curl in the material of Ian’s shirt when Ian parts Mickey’s lips with his and he slips his tongue across Mickey’s. </p><p>Slowly, Mickey pulls back, eyes on Ian’s. </p><p>“I got the beer,” he whispers, bumping the tip of Ian’s nose with his, moving forward and pressing their matching grins together. “Don’t forget the lube, bitch.”</p><p>Mickey darts down the stairs two at a time while he leaves Ian to get ready. He makes his way into the kitchen where Debbie’s standing by the sink, washing the dishes. Franny’s spinning around with a plastic discount store bow and arrow. She shoots at the washer a few times, but the cheap rubber at the end of the arrows only sticks for a second, before they clatter to the floor. </p><p>“Hey, we got any bags around to carry shit in?” Mickey greets, playfully squeezing the bun on top of Franny’s head. He mutters a nasally<em> “honk, honk”</em> as he walks by, making her giggle. He yanks the fridge door open, hunting for the case of Old Style tucked away in the back. </p><p>“Well hey, fast and furious,” Debbie greets back instead of answering, a dry look on her face. “Thanks for getting my tail light fixed. Don’t suppose you know anything about the bumper though,” Debbie sneers, side eyeing Mickey. </p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes at her, pulling the case of beer out once he’s managed to move all the leftover containers out of the way. He’s not gonna let her attitude bring down his mood. He’s too busy riding high on the premise of him and Ian spending time together that<em> isn’t</em> in the house. </p><p>“Yeah, whatever, Pippi Longstocking. If you wanna blame all the shit wrong with it on me, we’re gonna be here all night,” he dismisses, setting the beer down onto the counter with a thump. “Bags?” He asks again impatiently. </p><p>Debbie clicks her tongue, bumping her knee in gesture against the cabinet under the sink. “All the grocery bags get stuffed down here. There might be a reusable one in there somewhere,” she explains. “Why?”</p><p>“None of your business,” he mumbles, trying to shoulder her out of the way to get to the cabinet. She fights back for a minute, sudsy dishes in her hands, and they end up in a battle of push-pull like a pair of siblings before she finally steps to the side with a dramatic huff. </p><p>Mickey bends down and pries open the door, sticking from the cheap paint. He makes a face at the plethora of shopping bags crammed inside, digging around.</p><p>He’s bitching to himself over why anyone would need this many bags, that they don’t even use, and why don’t they just throw them out when he hears small footsteps behind him and an excited cry from Franny. </p><p>“Let’s play, uncle Mickey!” She shrieks, and Mickey’s heart jumps into his throat when he feels the gun tucked into the back of his jeans being pulled free. </p><p>He reacts instinctively, head shooting up, but he ends up banging the top of it on the edge of the cabinet frame hard. And for a moment he’s disoriented with his hand stretched out uselessly behind him. </p><p><em>“Shit!”</em> He grunts, his other hand pressing against his head where it’s throbbing. </p><p>There’s a rapid shuffle of movement behind him. </p><p>“Franny!” He hears Debbie shout, and his heart stutters again as he comes racing back to reality. His whole body whips around and he snatches the piece out of the toddler’s grip quickly. Debbie pulls Franny back at the same time Mickey pulls back. His niece lets out a surprised cry when she tumbles back into her mom. </p><p>“Mickey, what the hell?!” Debbie yells at him, holding her daughter against her legs with her arms crossed beneath her little ginger form protectively. Franny covers her ears with her hands at the yell and her lip wobbles, starting to cry at the sudden confusion around her. </p><p>Mickey quickly shoves the weapon into his waistband at his front, tucking it away, his heart hammering so hard in his chest he can feel it. His eyes are wide as saucers when he looks at Debbie to Franny, stunned silent. </p><p>Something about the terrified look on Franny’s face reminds Mickey of the first time he ever held a gun. He was a little older than Franny, but not by more than a couple years, and guns were a common sight around the Milkovich house. His mom never let him near them before then, always pulling him away by the arm when he tried. The first time it happened, when he was around four, Laura had yelled and yanked his arm so hard, it scared him. </p><p><em>“Mikhailo, you shouldn’t touch those! They’re bad!”</em> She chastised. Though he was too young to fully understand it, when he looked up at her angry expression, he felt guilt at disobeying her and he bit at his lip in response. His eyes started to prick at the corners. </p><p><em>“Sorry mama,”</em> he mumbled, his little hands balling into fists, his thumbs rubbing anxiously at his clenched fingers.</p><p>Her expression softened then, and she brought her hands up to his face, round and freckled, gently stroking the apples of his cheeks. </p><p><em>“You’re my littlest boy, sweetface. I don’t need you growing up too fast,”</em> she had smiled softly at him, and Mickey had slowly calmed under her touch, her gentle voice. </p><p>As he got a little older though, he started to get more curious about them, trying to sneak a peek whenever Laura wasn’t around. His brothers were always allowed to touch them, even Iggy who wasn’t that much older than Mickey. It felt unfair. </p><p>There were a few guns left out on the dining room table like usual, next to large steel files his dad and uncles used to get the serial numbers off. He glanced over the room, checking to make sure no one was around, before he stepped closer to the table. Carefully, he picked one up. It was heavy. It fit so awkwardly in his small hands he had to use both to keep it straight, while he attempted to hold it like he’d seen his dad and brothers do. He closed one eye and tilted his head to the side, looking over the short muzzle and pretended to aim. </p><p><em>“I thought your mother told you to leave those alone.”</em> Bellowed a voice from the open frame of the hallway. His dad. </p><p>Mickey gasped, startled, and dropped the gun back onto the table like it had burned him. He took a quick step back and stood pin straight, his hands bunching at his sides to keep them from shaking. Terry hated it when he was scared. Would always smack him around and call him a baby. </p><p>Terry stepped into the dining room, and Mickey had to bite his lip to keep it from shaking too, the closer Terry got to him. Mickey watched with wide eyes as his father approached, a massive and terrifying silhouette over him. Mickey’s eyes bounced around the room, trying to look anywhere but his dad. His chest hurt. </p><p><em>“Hey, look me in the eye like a man when I’m talking to you,”</em> Terry growled. </p><p>Mickey’s eyes followed the giant paw of a hand reaching out to grab the gun he’d dropped, the metal scraping against the wood of the table. Those tattooed fingers Mickey’s seen a little too up close every time his father hit him. Mickey sucked in a deep breath and glanced up at his father then, only to stumble backward when he got the butt of the gun to the side of his head. </p><p>Mickey reached up and put a hand over the sore spot where he was hit, clutching at his short, dark locks. His teeth dug into his lip, holding back the cry of pain that wobbled in his throat. Then, he forced himself to look up again, into his father’s severe stare, looking like he was just waiting for an excuse to hit him again. It took everything in Mickey’s little body not to burst into tears.<em> Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…</em></p><p><em>“So, the mama’s boy wants to shoot a gun, huh?”</em> His dad taunted, and Mickey felt himself automatically nodding. Terry stared him down sternly, making Mickey feel like he was crumbling under it. Suddenly, Terry reached out and batted Mickey’s hand away from his head, then set a hand on top of his dark hair, shoving him along. </p><p>
  <em>“Go get your fucking brothers then, kid, we’re going out.” </em>
</p><p>And as Mickey turned and ran out of the room as fast as he could, he’d never felt more terrified and elated in his life. </p><p>“Hey, look, she’s fine. The safety was on,” Mickey explains. But Debbie doesn’t calm down. </p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me? What if it wasn’t? She had it in her hands!” Debbie yells back, even louder, making a sharp pain shoot across his skull like a lightning bolt. He glances back down at Franny who’s clutching back at Debbie’s arms, giant tears in her eyes as she stares up at him. The whole situation feels like a nightmare.</p><p>His mouth moves, working at words that keep dying in his throat, when Ian steps into the kitchen, zipping up his hoodie. He stops immediately, sensing the tension, looking between the three of them in confusion. </p><p>“What’s going on?” </p><p>Mickey takes in a quick breath, but Debbie beats him to the punch. </p><p>“Franny grabbed Mickey’s gun!” Debbie snaps, glaring back at Mickey. </p><p>“What?” Ian asks, wide eyed as he turns his alarmed expression Mickey’s way. “Mickey, what the fuck?”</p><p>With all the attention on him, Mickey can feel his stomach lurch, feeling more and more like he’s being backed into a corner.</p><p>“It was a<em> fucking accident,”</em> Mickey growls. The corner of the counter is digging harshly into the small of his back, probably creating a bruise to match his front from the bathroom sink. “I bent down for a second and my shirt must’ve pulled up and she saw it. Okay? It was a… it was an accident.”</p><p>Mickey’s ribs are aching from how hard he’s breathing, and his hands drop to the edge of the counter behind him, clutching for something steady to hold on to. Near him, Ian lets out a heavy breath. </p><p>“This is the shit I was trying to tell you, Mick, it’s not safe to just have them out,” Ian scolds, frowning as his arms cross over his chest. “What if Franny got hurt?”</p><p>“She didn’t! I grabbed it before she had a chance to do anything!” He wishes Ian could just see that he’s clearly freaking out about it, that he feels bad, and to just give him a second to breathe and explain himself. “And the safety is--”</p><p>“Who cares? Just because you grew up around criminal shit--“</p><p>“Fuck you, Debbie,” Mickey snaps back at her, feeling his whole body go tense at her jab. “You don’t know shit--“</p><p>“She’s not wrong, Mickey, it’s not like we have a ton of weapons hanging around here. If the kids--“</p><p>“Fuck you too, Gallagher, you don’t know how it even went down.”</p><p>“I would if you would just tell me what’s going on!”</p><p>“I just<em> said</em> it was an accident!”</p><p>Ian shakes his head. “I know, Mick, but this is--“</p><p>“No,” Mickey grunts, pushing himself up from the edge of the counter stiffly. “No. Fuck this, I’m out.” He spins towards the door, but Ian moves an arm out to block his exit. </p><p>“Mickey--“ Ian pleads.</p><p>But Mickey’s over it. His chest is on fire and his eyes are burning, and he just needs to get out of here so he can breathe. He reaches up and shoves at Ian’s chest to get him out of the way, hard enough to send him stumbling into the washer behind him. </p><p>He makes a break through the living room, panting heavily like he’d just ran circles through the house. He steps into his boots by the door, not bothering to tie the laces, and he throws the front door open. He takes in a lungful of the cool night air as it surrounds him the moment he’s outside, though it doesn’t settle his stomach as well as he'd hoped.</p><p>“Mickey!” Ian shouts close behind. </p><p>Mickey ignores him. He doesn’t bother to close the door as he steps onto the porch, and Ian’s stomping onto the landing as Mickey quickly makes his way down the wooden stairs. The windows rattle as the door slams shut behind them and Ian’s footfalls echo as he runs to catch up. He circles around Mickey until he nearly collides with Ian’s form when it appears in front of him. </p><p>“Leave me alone, Gallagher,” Mickey grits, and backs away from him. The dirt on the sidewalk grinds under his boots as he twists away from Ian, heading around the side of the house to the backyard. </p><p>Mickey makes it halfway down the side yard when his shoulder collides into the siding of the house. Ian’s hands grip his hips and he spins Mickey around to face him, holding him against the solid brick.</p><p>“Jesus, can you stop for a second?” Ian snaps, out of breath. </p><p>“Get the fuck off me,” Mickey bites back, shoving at Ian’s chest again, harder this time. Ian backs off when he nearly trips, the sandals he’d hastily slid his socked feet into slipping on the grass. </p><p>“What the fuck is your problem?” Ian shouts when he rights himself, and Mickey licks at his bottom lip, curled in anger.</p><p><em>“What the fuck is my--</em>What the fuck is<em> your</em> problem? Fucking <em>pushy,”</em> Mickey snaps, shoving at Ian, forcing him further back. Mickey takes a step forward, advancing on Ian. “Never knowing when to back the fuck off.” </p><p>“I just want to know what the hell is going on with you!” Ian yells, smacking away Mickey’s hands when he moves to push Ian again. Ian grabs Mickey’s shoulders and shoves him backwards until he’s pinning him against the side of the house. The back of Mickey’s head knocks against the brick. </p><p>“Get off me,” Mickey growls, his voice ragged in his throat, edging on desperate. He’s starting to hear alarm bells. He grabs Ian’s wrists, clutching and yanking at him so hard he can feel the tendons shift under his fingers. </p><p>Ian hisses, yanking his hands away. And Mickey feels like he can finally gasp in a breath again when Ian takes a step back.</p><p>Ian’s glare burns holes in Mickey as he rubs his wrists, the pale, freckled skin already turning red. They breathe hard at each other, Mickey with his back against the brick, Ian leaning against the side of the fence as it rattles under his restless weight. </p><p>“This is getting out of hand,” Ian mutters, just loud enough for Mickey to pick up on it. </p><p>“You’re gonna take one thing, a single incident--” Mickey bursts out as he tries to defend himself, yet again, hands gesturing wildly, but Ian’s already shaking his head at him. </p><p>“Not just<em> that,”</em> Ian says. “It’s <em>you</em> acting all fucking cagey and shit since you saw your dad. All over me one second, then acting all psycho the next. I’m getting whiplash Mick.”</p><p>Mickey turns his face away, lips working against words that aren’t there. His jaw juts outward until the muscles ache when he can’t seem to form an excuse.</p><p>He’s trying to get the words out, he desperately wants to, but they’re just not coming, and the silence between them feels like it’s stretching infinitely. A car alarm blares in the distance, counting off the seconds that pass between them.</p><p>“So, this is about Terry.” Ian speaks cautiously to cut the silence, and Mickey’s jaw snaps shut against it, his lips curling into a straight line between his teeth. He’s still not looking at Ian, gaze focused on some point way beyond where he can see. </p><p>“It is, isn’t it.” Ian says, and he sounds tired.</p><p>When Mickey still doesn’t respond he hears Ian let out a heavy sigh, getting impatient with the silent treatment. “I thought you weren’t scared of your dad, anymore.”</p><p>Mickey’s stomach twists at how disappointed Ian sounds. It makes him feel sick, and then it makes him feel furious.</p><p>“Fuck you, man,” Mickey rasps, his top lip curling into an ugly sneer. It’s the face he’d make during an argument with Mandy, and she’d snap that he looked just like Terry because she knew it hurt. </p><p>Mickey drags a hand across his mouth, trying to rub it off. </p><p>Mickey thinks about how quickly things in his life can take a turn, if Ian wants to talk about getting whiplash. A few weeks ago, he was fine, just fucking fine. Living his best married life, all things considered. And then Terry had to go and fuck it all up, like he always does. Bringing out that adolescent fear and anxiety in Mickey he’d thought he’d left behind that night at the Alibi. The reemergence makes Mickey feel helpless. Like now he’s letting Ian down. It’s an uncomfortable skin to be in.</p><p>Ian breathes in, shuffling his feet on the grass. “Terry is--listen, Frank is a fucked up piece of shit too, but you don’t see me--”</p><p>Mickey bristles and he’s on Ian in a second. His tattooed fingers clench into the neck of Ian’s hoodie as he pulls him close enough to feel Ian’s breath on his face. It’s a move Ian isn’t expecting, with the way his head flinches back, frowning hard at Mickey. “Hey!”</p><p>“Are you fucking insane?” Mickey hisses furiously. “Where the fuck do you get off making that fucking comparison? Terry isn’t fucking Frank, there is no fucking contest there and you know it,” Mickey snaps, spitting mad. </p><p>They don’t talk about it, they’ve never talked about it, but Ian has had a front row seat to the kind of monster Terry can be. To compare Terry to a belligerent, absent dad like Frank, is like comparing a rabid pitbull to a yappy chihuahua. It makes Mickey feel like he’s going insane with hurt, hearing it come out of Ian’s mouth. It feels like Ian’s forgotten everything Mickey can’t.</p><p>“I-I’m just saying, I’ve been hurt by my dad too, Mick, I know--”</p><p><em>“Don’t</em> you fucking tell me that you know what it’s like,” Mickey snaps, cutting Ian off. His grip tightens on Ian’s hoodie, yanking Ian closer until their noses are touching. “You were there, Ian, he made you fucking watch it happen. You think something like that is Frank’s brand?”</p><p>Ian blinks a few times, his brows furrowed like he’s not sure what Mickey’s getting at, until he does. Until his face softens at first, and then waxes in alarm.</p><p>“Mick--” He whispers, voice wobbling on a single syllable.</p><p>“And you think that was what? A one-off? Like Terry’s never done an evil fucking thing before or since?” </p><p>Mickey’s seething, and his hands are shaking, and fuck, he just wants Ian to see. </p><p>That every time he bent to Terry’s will, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was a means of surviving Terry. It was what Laura did until she couldn’t. It was what Mickey did until he realized it’d eventually kill him anyway.</p><p>He wants him to see that Mickey is struggling to protect himself and everyone else he cares about, without having to live under Terry’s shadow. That he feels like he’s doing everything wrong. </p><p>That seeing Franny looking so terrified of him is a personal fucking nightmare for Mickey.</p><p><em>Well maybe if you would just talk about it,</em> a voice snarks in Mickey’s head. And he hates that it sounds a little bit like Lip. </p><p>“How the hell could you think that I would believe that, you absolute prick.” Ian grits out, pulling Mickey’s attention back on him.</p><p>He pushes Mickey, who quickly steels himself against the forceful press on his chest, skidding back slightly in the grass. </p><p>Ian’s face is coloring quickly, red around the neck and forehead. He’s getting angry too. “I just don’t want to think about it. So I <em>don’t,</em>” Ian says, like forgetting comes so easily to him. </p><p>“It was fucked,” Ian scowls. “What if I looked at you and that was all I could think about? Huh? How would that make you feel?” </p><p>Instead of pushing Mickey away this time, Ian grasps at Mickey’s shirt, shaking him in his iron hold. “I know how you look at me sometimes. And I know you’re thinking about back when I was losing my shit, when I was drooling all over myself at the hospital--”</p><p>And Mickey wants to deny it, but he’s choking on it. Fuck. Sometimes it just happens, like an intrusive thought. A <em>what if? </em></p><p>And fuck. Their argument is devolving fast, and Mickey can’t get a grasp on it.</p><p>Ian must see something in his face, because he presses on. “Yeah, see? I’m not fucking stupid, Mick. I know how that look makes me feel, so why would I do that to you? And that’s something I couldn’t even control.”</p><p>“Fuck off, Ian,” Mickey croaks. “If you think for a second that I had any control over that shit.”</p><p>“Not at the time, but afterwards? The marriage. You had a choice.” Ian bites out, right on the edge with Mickey. </p><p>“And I fucking made it, incase you fucking forgot the ass beating we both got after the Christening, you fucking dumbass.”</p><p>“It could’ve happened sooner. Before--“</p><p>“And if I recall correctly, you loved playing fucking house--“</p><p>“I wasn’t<em> well.”</em></p><p>“And there I was, dealing with you, dealing with her, waiting for Terry to get out of prison and pop a cap in my ass.”</p><p>“Oh, aren’t you just a martyr,” Ian snips, jabbing a finger into Mickey’s chest. “You think you’re the only one that had bullshit to deal with, you pussy?”</p><p>Mickey greets his teeth against the insult. “Guess I’d rather be a pussy than a <em>nutjob.</em> Talkin’ straight out the fucking <em>cuckoo’s nest</em> shit with you.”</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck you.”</em>
</p><p>And Mickey isn’t ready when Ian’s palm slaps him hard in the forehead and pushes him back, his head hitting brick with a<em> thwack.</em> But Mickey’s quick on his feet when it comes to fights. He’s swinging back against Ian until he hits a solid landing. He hears Ian grunt against the punch as Mickey boxes him right in the ear, and suddenly they’re up against the side of the house again. They’re hitting and kicking out at each other, cursing belligerently into each other’s panting mouths. They’re so close, gripping each other by their shirt collars. </p><p>They kick up the grass under their feet, spinning around as they take turns slamming each other up against the brick. Mickey nearly bites his tongue off when a hit against his jaw slams it shut. He retaliates by forcing the breath out of Ian’s lungs with double hits to the ribs. </p><p>The thing about fighting Ian is that Mickey can get as good as he gives. It’s one of their default moves, starting from the very beginning. Where they can’t speak the words, they can make the other feel it this way. </p><p>It’s almost always fighting, almost always sex. Part of Mickey thinks they should be past this, but a part of Mickey likes the release that comes from it. It gives all the tension thrumming in Mickey’s body an outlet. He has a feeling it has a similar effect on Ian. That’s why it works, even if it’s fucked up. Even if it’s only a bandaid on a bullet wound. </p><p>Mickey’s not sure when it happens, but somewhere during the struggle, the tension takes a turn. </p><p>The angry shoving and hitting gradually turns into a desperate tearing at each other’s clothes. They’re still cursing the other out while biting at each other’s lips and they’re moving so discordantly and blindly it’s like neither of them can really figure out if they’re fighting or about to fuck. The only things they manage to yank off of them completely is Ian’s shirt and hoodie, while Mickey’s shirt is halfway rucked up to his chest. </p><p>“Fuckin’ dickhead.” Ian bites, forcing a knee between Mickey’s own.</p><p>“Dumbass slut,” Mickey hisses back, grabbing the back of Ian’s neck and crashing their mouths together. </p><p>The final switch from straight up fighting to fight-fucking comes when Ian rips open Mickey’s jeans, holding him in place with a tight grip on his hair. They both ignore Mickey’s glock as it drops to the grass, too focused on each other to care about anything else. The shuffling of their feet kicks it off to the side, forgotten. Swiftly, Mickey yanks at Ian’s belt until he gets it open and he shoves a hand into his boxers. </p><p>They let out twin groans, and Mickey’s arching off the side of the house when Ian pulls his dick out, jerking Mickey fast and hard and a little dry in his large hand.</p><p>Mickey fumbles, his hands shaking from adrenaline and arousal, but he manages to pull Ian’s cock out from his pants, giving him an unkind squeeze in the process. Ian hisses into Mickey’s mouth, his hips bucking sharply into Mickey’s grip, fucking into his tattooed fingers feverently. </p><p>They’re tearing at each other’s hair and stepping on each other’s feet, their mouths wet between sloppy, filthy presses. Their dicks are leaking over their knuckles, and Ian’s hips are slamming forward to pin Mickey down, while Mickey bucks back just as rough. They’re a fucking mess.</p><p>“Fucking asshole,” Ian groans, and pushes against Mickey until his entire body has him pinned. Mickey has to stand on his toes while Ian hoists boldily against the brick. Fuck.</p><p>“Dramatic bitch,” Mickey grunts in return, kicking out a leg and locking it behind one of Ian’s. </p><p>He pulls him closer, barely giving their hands enough room to move but it doesn’t matter. Neither of them last very long, they’re both too keyed up, achingly hard and leaking precome all over Mickey’s stomach. </p><p>And then Ian’s biting down on the juncture of Mickey’s neck hard and he’s shaking against him, coming over Mickey’s abdomen and shirt. Mickey’s head smacks against the house, his teeth gritting around a pained grunt. The blunt pain of Ian’s teeth paired with Ian’s come painting his skin is too much, and he’s plunging over the edge and all over Ian’s furiously jerking hand shortly after.</p><p>Mickey finds himself staring up at the dark sky, while Ian has his face buried in his neck. The back of Mickey’s throbs, and he wonders if Ian’s given him a fucking concussion. The only sounds between them are heavy, in time breaths. The side of Mickey’s neck is damp under Ian’s open mouth. </p><p>He can feel Ian taking in longer inhales periodically, his nose nudging the spot behind Mickey’s ear. He wants to lean into the familiarity of it. He wants to run away from it.</p><p>Once the frozen daze he’s in begins to clear, Mickey slides his messy hands up along Ian’s bare ribs. He holds them there for a moment, then Mickey gives Ian a shove, until he’s pulling his lazy weight off of him with a disappointed grunt. </p><p>Mickey feels tempted to sink down into the grass, but instead he heaves himself off the brick, catching himself when he stumbles slightly on unsteady feet. He looks over at Ian, who’s tucking himself back into his jeans, and then down at himself, making a face at the stains they left on his shirt. He wipes himself off as best he can on the inside of it, and zips himself up. </p><p>The gun in the grass catches Mickey’s eye when he’s looking down, and he swoops down to pick it up. And his body is aching everywhere, and Mickey’s not sure if it’s satisfying or not. He shoves the piece back into the waist of his jeans roughly, and nearly jumps when he feels a large palm settle against the back of his neck. </p><p>Mickey looks up into Ian’s face, who’s chewing on his lip as he looks back at Mickey. Neither of them have said a word yet to the other, and neither of them seem to know how to start. </p><p>And although Mickey doesn’t feel like he’s falling apart under the tension anymore, he finds himself still not wanting to head back inside with Ian. He doesn’t want to see the confused fear in Franny’s face, or the contempt in Debbie’s eyes. He doesn’t want to face the aftermath of the things they said in the heat of the moment. </p><p>He feels desperate for that fucking drink, shit, maybe a few of them. As many as it takes for forget this whole fucking week. </p><p>Pushing a breath out, Mickey shoulders out of Ian’s touch and heads toward the small pile of Ian’s clothes. Ian’s hand drops to his side like dead weight, and he watches Mickey gather up his t-shirt and hoodie wordlessly. Mickey turns around and tosses the shirt to Ian but keeps the hoodie, tugging it on and zipping it up, effectively hiding the obvious stains on his black cut off. </p><p>He glances at Ian, quick enough that he could convince himself that he doesn’t, he leads himself back down to the front of the house. He can hear Ian walking behind him, the soft gait on the grass stopping when Ian turns and makes his way up the stairs and Mickey continues on until he’s on the sidewalk. </p><p>The silent tension breaks when Ian realizes Mickey isn’t going to follow him into the house. </p><p>“Where are you going?” Ian frowns at Mickey, eyes searching. It’s clear that Ian had thought that their shit was resolved, even if the date to the dugouts was unspokenly off the table. And it annoys Mickey in a deep way.</p><p>Mickey shrugs, already partly facing the street ahead. He pulls out a half crushed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, the soft glow of the lighter flickering across his features for a brief moment. </p><p>“Goin’ for a walk,” he croaks around the haze of smoke leaving his lungs, squinting up at Ian. </p><p>“Do you… want me to join you?” Ian asks, tentatively, shifting on his feet.</p><p>“Fuck no,” Mickey grunts. All invitations officially revoked.</p><p>Mickey’s legs feel like lead, each step a struggle as he begins to walk away. But he doesn’t stop, and pushes through the front gate. </p><p>“You’re kidding... you’re just going to leave?” Ian calls at his back, sounding pissed again, and a little hurt. Mickey hears the creak of the woodens planks underneath Ian’s feet. “Just like that?”</p><p>Mickey slows, then turns to face Ian, his cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. His arms spread out wide on either side of him while he slowly walks backwards. His brows raise high to his hairline. Ian’s leaning over the railing, frowning at him.</p><p>“Stings pretty bad, doesn’t it?” He calls back. </p><p>For once, Mickey feels like being the petty one. The one to walk away when shit gets hard. Mickey turns toward the street again, and he pushes away the sinking feeling of disappointment when he hears distant footsteps and the hard slam of the front door at his back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The second part is here, and it's a hefty one, about double the length of the first. It's been a minute, but hopefully worth the wait!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mickey weaves through the streets and alleys of the south side, leaving a breadcrumb trail of cigarettes in his wake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After years of walking the same blocks, he could find his way around the south side blindfolded if he wanted to. He never has to look up and double check the street signs, he knows where to turn and which shortcuts to take. And even if he doesn’t have a destination in mind, he knows he’ll end up somewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s something that Mickey has let himself take pride in since he was a kid, running them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That these streets are, and will always be, a deeply ingrained part of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>South side forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lungs feel heavy as he takes another drag from his cigarette; he’s gone through most of his pack since he’s left the Gallagher house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an acrid burn in the back of his throat, but he has to keep his hands and mouth preoccupied, or else Mickey might give in and start screaming out his frustrations in a dark alley like a lunatic until the cops are called. He’s so frustrated, his whole body is humming with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>These streets have bore witness to Mickey’s highs, and especially his lows. Like now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it wasn’t the best move to leave Ian back at the house the way he did, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being caged in by the walls of the Gallagher house. After completely coming undone in the side yard, Mickey knows his head was still too much of a jumbled mess to be around Ian; or worse, Debbie and freaked out little Franny. He’d be unable to stop his mouth going off like a semi automatic, leaving similar damage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was better that Mickey left to clear his head, leaving everyone else to do the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes he could quit thinking about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>About how paranoid he feels about Terry. He’s too fucking old to be acting like the boogeyman’s coming for him. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that it’s creating more problems than he can handle. He’s supposed to be enjoying his newly minted married life for fuck’s sake, not looking over his shoulder every turn waiting for it to be ripped away from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been days with no sign of Terry around the house. But he feels like the moment he allows himself to let his guard down, that vulnerability will become blood in the water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It just isn’t fucking fair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s spiraling, but he’s helpless to stop it. And every time he tries, it all blows up in his face. He just isn’t used to this, having something to care for, something to protect. He went from being young and having nothing, and in a blink, having something he’s holding so close, it’s burning him up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sighs and tosses the butt to the ground, the tan end getting too hot on his lip with how far it’s burned down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been moving on autopilot, but he isn’t surprised when the Alibi suddenly appears in his sights, just a block and a cross walk away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The front of the bar is lit up like a heavenly beacon between dark windowed storefronts and Mickey swears he hears angels the closer he gets. He needs to get the ash taste and bitterness out of his mouth and throat, and a beer or several would do just that. Maybe if Vee is there, she could even play the sympathetic bartender. If Kev’s there, well, at least he can still get a beer. Mickey doesn’t really need to relive the butt buddies talk ever again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s close to the cross walk when the door of the bar bursts open, and a few rowdy men come stumbling out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Alibi is Mecca for belligerent drunks, so at first, Mickey doesn’t pay much attention to them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But his feet skid on the pavement when a familiar voice rings out, echoing off the surrounding buildings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You goddamn soft headed cocksucker!” Someone shouts, and that barbwired voice pulls at Mickey’s invisible strings so hard, he’s moving before he can even think. He’s quick as he scrambles on the concrete and ducks into the alleyway to his right, crouching in the shadows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, shit, shit,” Mickey repeats under his breath. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he sits on his haunches with his back against the wall, pressed against it so close he can feel the cool brick through Ian’s hoodie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He listens hard for any more noise, and thankfully, it quickly becomes clear the words weren’t aimed at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never had a deep fucking thought in your life, but you thought you could bet against me anyway,” Terry bellows out. The chest deep, raspy laugh that follows runs down Mickey’s spine like sandpaper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw c’mon, I nearly had ya in the first half, uncle Terry!” Someone whines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey takes a deep breath and takes his chances, pushing himself off the brick so he can stand and peer around the corner to the bar entrance. The three men are standing side by side, talking and smoking, cigarette smoke creating a hazy cloud above them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees his brother Colin first. Colin stands out because he’s always been the biggest of Terry’s kids, and he nearly dwarfs their father, who’s standing leaned against the building beside him. Their </span>
  <em>
    <span>cousin </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaime is there too, half a head shorter than Colin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy had told Mickey when they were younger that Jaime was actually their half brother, and Terry’s real eldest son. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>According to him, Jaime’s mother had done a shit ton of drugs while pregnant, and Jaime was the product of it. He’s on the slow side, even by Milkovich standards, and Terry had given him up to an aunt to raise when Jaime’s mother dipped. All their life he had been raised as a cousin rather than a brother. Mickey isn’t even sure Jaime even knows that Terry’s his real dad, even now. He’s a wonky branch off a tree with deep, twisted roots for sure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And how fucking like Terry, to pass off anyone who he thinks is unworthy. Like being Terry’s kid comes with anything but being dirt poor with a rap sheet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey feels his mouth contort into a sneer. It’s shit like that that makes Mickey wonder how Terry’s managed to make it this long without becoming a bloated body in a canal. He’s never been short on enemies. And for all he preaches about family loyalty, he’s sure as shit fucked over plenty of Milkoviches. Even his white power friends are becoming few and far between on the outside, more of them locked up for life than not. Mickey knows, because Mickey’s met plenty of them in prison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Terry’s gone his whole life thinking he's untouchable. He never has to look over his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s almost funny, how easy it could be right now. Mickey could take him out, if he wanted to. He’s got the means and the motive. Just a drunk sitting duck, Terry wouldn’t even know what hit him. Mickey wonders what he’d think about before the lights went out of his fucking eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Would anyone be surprised that Terry Milkovich took a bullet between the eyes, standing shit faced in front of the Alibi? Not likely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Could Mickey get away with it? Considering his track record, even less likely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But what if?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s shoulder digs into the hard wall as he watches the men across the street. The more he thinks, the more the gun feels like it’s burning a hole into Mickey’s lower back and he reaches behind him, slowly sliding it from the back of his jeans. He holds it to his side, ignoring the way his hand shakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey never once made it through an entire English class past the age of thirteen, but if he racks his brain, he thinks this could be considered poetic justice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Notorious racist and homophobe, Terry Milkovich, shot in his ugly fucking mug by his gay son. With the same hands Terry himself taught him how to shoot with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It could make a decent headline.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Could come with a blown out photo of Mickey’s mugshot, too.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey curses sharply under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s not even here, but he might as well be. He’s not sure when his conscience took on the voice of a Gallagher, but it’s becoming a fucking problem too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian hasn’t said it yet, but Mickey knows he’s terrified of Mickey going back to prison. He sees it on Ian’s face more and more these days, so loud Mickey doesn’t even need Ian to ever tell him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And part of Mickey wants to blame Ian for making him soft, but a part of Mickey also knows he’s always been that way. It’s been a painted target on his back since he was a kid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d thought he’d be untouchable, too, if he pretended to be the hate filled clone of Terry that his dad has always wanted him to be. But Mickey’s always felt too much; it’s what drives everything he does. And he can try all he wants to shove down that part of him, but it’ll always come bubbling up, stronger and uglier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey curses again and closes his eyes. His thumb toys with the safety. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck, he could do it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could, he could, he could. It could be that easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey could make it so he’d never have to look over his shoulder in fear again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could watch Ian leave the house without the intrusive vision of Terry mowing him over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It really isn’t just about Mickey, anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And therein lies the duality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could do it, prison doesn’t scare him. As much as he hates it, it’s in his blood as much as the south side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But to Ian it might feel like the ultimate betrayal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like there’s any love lost between Terry and Ian. But could Mickey stand the look on Ian’s face if it somehow got traced back to him? There’s no doubt in Mickey’s mind that Ian would lie for him. Would do it over and over if it meant keeping them together. But it could be too close of a call, too real of a nightmare for Ian. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even if Mickey got away with it, if the one person in the world that Mickey cared about more than anything couldn’t look at him the same, would taking Terry out even be worth it? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey pushes out a heavy breath, his lips curling between his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a commotion across the street, and Mickey’s attention snaps back to the three men. Colin must have said something because Jaime’s swinging at him, but he’s never been much of a fighter, even sober, and he misses every time. He watches as Terry clocks Jaime on the side of the head with deadly accuracy and pushes him toward the front door of the Alibi, cursing and laughing all the while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re heading back inside, and it feels like a now or never moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey takes a deep breath and stands up. He lifts his hands and aims at his unaware target, widening his stance. He keeps both eyes open, just like he was taught to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One rule Terry’s always emphasized is that you don’t let yourself think before you shoot. You’re not aiming at a beer bottle, a squirrel, a person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It’s a target and a target only. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey inhales, slow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought you weren’t scared of your dad, anymore. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hears distantly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thumbs off the safety. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He exhales. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You sure you got this?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He puts the safety back on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God-fucking-damnit, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbles incredulously, dropping his hand to his side like dead weight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Terry’s never done a single selfless thing in his entire fucking life. He’s only ever looked out for himself and his own interests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Mickey isn’t Terry. And he has more reasons than ever to make sure he never will be. Letting Ian down would be a worse outcome than letting Terry stink up the south side a little longer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns with his back to the brick and gingerly leans his head against it. He stands there, staring at the opposite wall until the shouting across the street is cut off abruptly by the slam of the bar door. He lets out the breath he’d been holding in, and rubs a hand over his mouth, then pushes himself off the wall again. The alleyway is blocked a few yards in, and as he scans his surroundings, Mickey notices a grime covered dumpster about halfway down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t let himself think about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks down the alley, until he’s standing in front of the dumpster. He shakes out the sleeves of the hoodie and curls his hands in them, rubbing the material over the grip and barrel to smudge off any fingerprints. He makes a face at the stink as he lifts the top off the dumpster. Before he can stop himself, he throws the gun into it so hard the clang of metal on metal echoes, scaring a couple of cats hiding under a stack of moldy cardboard boxes next to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden ruckus makes Mickey jump, and then he flips them off as the cats race down the alley to the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns and spares one last glance at the dumpster, hoping to fuck he’s made the right choice this time. He’s about due for some good karma, he thinks, as he bites down on his lip and pushes his sleeves back up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when he gets to the opening of the alley, Mickey starts to walk back in the direction he came.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His original plan had been to go back to the Gallagher house, because where the fuck else would he go. But a split second decision makes him take a few different turns, until he’s standing in front of the high fence that surrounds the baseball field.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks around, though he doesn’t expect to see anyone out there this time of night. He’s still quick when he scales up the fence and drops down onto the concrete below. He grunts out a curse when he feels the impact in his knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The field is lit up brightly, and it almost hurts Mickey’s eyes to look at. And even if Mickey didn’t know exactly where they were, Mickey can see the dugouts half hidden under the harsh shadows the field lights cast across them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a short walk over. Mickey sinks down hard onto one of the wooden benches, knees spread wide in front of him. He can still hear the city from here, but it’s muted, and it’s quiet enough at least that Mickey can let himself sag forward against the weight of the day. His elbows press into his thighs as he drops his face into his hands. He exhales heavily into his palms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stays like that for a while, letting himself be still while the world continues to turn in the distance. He isn’t sure how long he sits there, but his elbows are starting to make the tops of his thighs ache when he hears a rattling sound across the way. Mickey doesn’t look up, even if he’s really fucking annoyed at the idea of someone else jumping the fence and invading his space. He half hopes it’s just an animal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hopes are dashed when a heavy something, too heavy to be a raccoon or a possum, hits the concrete. There’s a long pause of silence after, and the lack of movement makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He thinks if he’s been spotted, maybe he’ll spook whoever it is into leaving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No such luck there either, because there’s a sound of steady footsteps on the ground, and judging by the increasing volume of each step, they’re coming his way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His shoulders tense. Even if he’s unarmed, hell will freeze over before he’s being fucking mugged in the dugouts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The footsteps start to get a little too close for his liking. Mickey’s about to drop his hands and bark at whoever is stupid enough to approach him, when they suddenly stop, and Mickey hears a slow inhale near him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voice makes Mickey stall in his movements for a beat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands drag over his face as he looks up slowly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He inhales, and he sees Ian. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, looking at Ian standing a few yards away, a worn backpack in his hand. His posture is a little tense, but Mickey thinks can read Ian pretty well. He doesn’t seem to be here looking for a part two of their argument. In fact, he looks a little bit like a cowed kid being forced to apologize for pushing another kid on the playground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at Mickey, the scrape of his shoes on the concrete loud between them as he shifts from foot to foot. Waiting to be invited over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey drops his hands into the space between his knees. His eyes cut away from Ian as he clears his throat, and sniffs, brushing his thumb across his nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t his husband. He wants to be annoyed, but his stomach swoops in Ian’s presence all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” He grunts out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Ian shuffle, and then slowly start to approach again, taking Mickey’s greeting as the OK. His sandals scrape on the dust covered concrete as he makes his way toward Mickey. Mickey’s still staring out past the chain link fence to the lit up baseball field in front of them, as Ian settles somewhere beside him. Ian sighs as he drops down onto the wooden bench, the contents of the bag clanging about when he sets it on the ground at his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re quiet for a while, sitting a few feet apart. The sounds of the city surrounding the field filling the rest of the space. Mickey keeps his eyes ahead, and he can’t make out Ian in the dim light from his peripheral, but he’s sure he can feel Ian’s gaze on the side of his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey knows Ian can’t stand the quiet for long, so Mickey waits him out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So.” Mickey hears Ian say, so quiet, like he isn’t sure he should break the silence. Mickey drags his teeth across his bottom lip, dropping his gaze down to his boots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Skipping town?” Mickey hears himself grunt out before Ian can say anything else, nodding with his head towards the bag at Ian’s feet. He keeps his eyes on the concrete. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian snorts from beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Snuck out the window so my parents wouldn’t know,” Ian mutters dryly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’d you know I’d be out here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucky guess,” Ian shrugs, tilting his head up to watch the stars peek through wispy clouds. “I tried waiting up. Couldn’t sleep,” he hears Ian sigh. “Kept thinking about you leaving when I tried. Figured I’d go out and find you instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey lets out a low, thoughtful hum. “Feels like an entire role reversal, don’t it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian clicks his tongue. “I--” He starts, then stops. Mickey hears him let out a heavy, forced exhale, then start again. He sounds defeated when he says, “Yeah, sure, I guess it does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums again at that, a little surprised by the lackluster response. He can tell Ian wants to fight him on it, but maybe he’s just letting Mickey have this one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers lace together between his knees, holding tight. They’re quiet again, and if Mickey listens hard enough, he can hear Ian’s slow, measured breaths between the sounds of a police siren wailing in the distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Predictably, Ian takes a deep breath through his nose, and Mickey knows he’s about to speak again. “Mickey--” He tries again, this time with a little more resolve in his voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you want from me,” Mickey spits out, suddenly. He can’t help the defensiveness in his tone, or how tight his throat feels when he speaks. There’s a pause between them, that slow in, out of Ian’s breathing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want anything from you,” Ian says, and Mickey can hear him frowning. “I’m just… I don’t know,” he groans, and Mickey can see his socked feet in his knock off Adidas sandals as Ian stretches out his legs. “I don’t know what’s happening. With you,” another pause. “With us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last part makes Mickey’s pulse immediately quicken. “Us?” He croaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you regret getting married?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey wants to bite out </span>
  <em>
    <span>“what a stupid fucking question,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the question itself makes his chest tighten so hard he can barely breathe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you?” He asks, voice shaky around the lump in his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a surprisingly quick answer. Mickey blinks his eyes open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just thought, maybe, you were thinking it would be easier, you know. For you. If we didn’t.” Ian’s words are clipped, like he has to think between each sentence. His gaze bounces around the dugouts. “With everything that’s happened since. Thought maybe… you’d rethink everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You been waiting this long for an ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I told you so’?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey almost laughs, albeit humorlessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I just--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“And, </span>
  </em>
  <span>since when the fuck has it</span>
  <em>
    <span> ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>been easy?” Mickey rants suddenly, unlacing his fingers and rubbing a hand over his eyes, then his mouth. “Seriously, give me an example, cause I’m coming up short here,” he adds. When Ian’s silent, he inhales deeply, and continues. “Right. So lets be fucking real here, neither of us went into this expecting fucking flowers and rainbows and shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he hears Ian mutter beside him. “Yeah, I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I don’t regret marrying you, Ian. I fucking wanted this. Warts and fucking all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t either. Regret it, I mean,” Ian says, the tone in his voice a little lighter. He sits up a little straighter. “I promise I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey nods, taking in a deep breath that manages to at least release some of the tightness in his chest. He knows Ian had, and still continues to have, fears about being married. And sometimes he brings it up like this when he’s feeling particularly insecure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey’s learned in these short few months not to take it too personally anymore. Not that it still doesn’t blind side him sometimes, like now when the wounds are still fresh, but once the anxious fog clears, Mickey can understand where it’s coming from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, Ian still went through with it, even if it was mostly for Mickey’s sake. But Mickey still remembers the look Ian gave him after being pronounced husband and husband. How real that was. Mickey may have been the one to push for it, but Ian has been all in ever since. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s exactly what Mickey’s wanted since they were teenagers; just Ian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey chews on his lip for a second, watching his fingers as he picks at the rough skin surrounding his thumbnails.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s Franny?” He redirects, a guilty crease forming between his eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s fine, Mick,” Ian says softly. “She was back to watching cartoons and putting together her bionicles when I went back in the house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey rubs his lips together, and nods again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She asked where you were,” Ian adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably wanted to make sure her uncle’s batshit husband was gone,” Mickey mutters, bitterly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know she doesn’t think that. She loves the shit out of you,” Ian tuts. “I don’t think she even really understands what happened. She got scared cause everyone else was freaking out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey lets out a harsh breath, his hands coming up to run along his face again. He rubs hard at his eyes. “Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Besides, I’m the </span>
  <em>
    <span>batshit </span>
  </em>
  <span>uncle, remember?” Ian says, attempting to lighten the mood. But Mickey’s face crumples as he shakes his head silently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey,” Ian pleads, when he realizes Mickey is beyond taking the bait. “And I ask this with the sincerity of the ten times I’ve asked this tonight. What the fuck is going on?” And it’s that honest, begging tone that makes Mickey crumble a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey groans into his palms, “I feel like I’m losing my mind, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw Terry tonight,” Mickey continues, dropping his hands from his face. He looks over at Ian, finally, who blinks at him. “At the Alibi.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’s not sure why he’s telling Ian or how much he’ll end up admitting, but it’s out there now. It’s always been an easy thing, letting down his guard around Ian, when it’s just them. Like just his presence alone can widen the cracks of Mickey’s fortress strong walls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he do anything?” Ian frowns, checking Mickey over like maybe he’d missed him bleeding out from somewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes Mickey snort. “No. He didn’t see me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well… Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was outside, with my brother and my cousin,” Mickey says. “Thought about shooting him. Right there on the sidewalk.” He adds, gauging Ian’s reaction. He watches his face journey, Ian’s eyebrows lift in surprise, then furrow while his mouth frowns deeper, then he presses his lips together in a straight line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So… what happened?” Ian finally asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well I’m here, and the only bodily fluids outside the Alibi is the usual piss and vomit, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, then…” Ian trails, shaking his head slightly as he struggles to follow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel like I’m failing, man.” Mickey blurts out. He cringes at it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By not murdering your dad?” Ian asks, bewildered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By not </span>
  <em>
    <span>protecting</span>
  </em>
  <span> everyone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who needs protecting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Mickey groans, falling back against the wall behind him. “You. Franny. Fuckin’ everyone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you need to protect us from Terry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From my fucking baggage, man. Yeah, from Terry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, no one asked you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> no one asked, I just--” Mickey exhales sharply, cutting himself off. “I…” Mickey’s shoulders drop, and he shakes his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how to explain to Ian how afraid he is of Terry taking everything away from him, without feeling like a major pussy about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey tilts his head, chancing a glance over at Ian. He’s making a face, lips pinched together like he’s thinking hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what it’s worth, and I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ian starts, eyebrows raised high. “I’m glad you didn’t, you know, kill Terry. He’s not worth going back to prison for, Mick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey arches an eyebrow back. “You’re so sure I’d get caught, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian snorts, face relaxing slightly as one side of his mouth lifts. He looks pointedly at Mickey. “It’s your track record, Mick. It kinda sucks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey breathes out a laugh, looking back up at the sky. “Yeah, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m serious, by the way,” Ian says, the half smile dropping away as he sobers. “I’m glad you didn’t. It would’ve been a really stupid move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I got it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think--I don’t think you could do it,” Ian says. He raises his hands quickly to cut Mickey off, who’s quick to open his mouth in defense.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Mickey,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you couldn’t. We both fucking know that. Just think about it, real quick. You really think it’s a bad thing that you’re not actually prone to murder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty sure it was you who said I was.” Mickey snaps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Ian breathes, rolling his eyes. “The Paula thing had us both fucked up. And… everything after that…” Ian’s face scrunches, like he’d rather not bring it up right then. “Point is, I want us to be together. Here. I don’t want you to do stupid shit and get yourself put away again. It’s why I stopped you the first time after shit went down at the Bamboo Lotus.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums, licking at his lips. He knows Ian mostly means prison, but he has to mention it. “Stupid shit like the fighting, too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s winces, and he nods. “Yeah. Fuck,” he mumbles, running a hand over his cropped locks. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I got too caught up. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Said some fucked up shit,” Mickey mutters back, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip. “And I don’t blame you for tryin’ to forget… that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you thought about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t. Or, I didn’t. Until Terry started his shit again. Fucker’s been living in my head rent free for so fucking long, I should send him a bill for past due rent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or an eviction notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A’ight, Dr. Phil.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets Ian to smile at that, and Mickey can’t help but shoot a small smile back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian pats at the pockets of his sweatpants and pulls out a box of Marlboro’s and a lighter and asks carefully, “So what are you gonna do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t know,” Mickey shrugs, because he genuinely doesn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like Mickey had a plan beyond </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe don’t kill my dad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He watches Ian take a drag of his cigarette, then glance over at Mickey. He pulls it from his lips and reaches across the few feet of space between them, handing it off to Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Threw the gun in a dumpster before I came here,” Mickey says, exhaling a stream of smoke in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Ian says, pressing his lips together. He looks surprised. And maybe… a little guilty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Mickey questions, looking over at Ian. He squints through the smoke as he passes the cigarette back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean. Good?” Ian says, glancing up and around Mickey as he rubs the back of his head. “Kinda got rid of the other one. I tore apart our room looking for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “The fuck’d you go and do that for?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was</span>
  <em>
    <span> pissed.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hadn’t noticed. What’d you do with the gun?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Threw the bullets in the street. Tossed the rest in the gutter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus.” Mickey takes the last drag from the cigarette they’d been passing back and forth and tosses it to the concrete in front of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Threw that whole bottom drawer with the knives and brass knuckles into the neighbor’s yard,” Ian scrunches his face, bracing for Mickey’s reaction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, what the</span>
  <em>
    <span> fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ian.” And yeah, it’s a whine. But that’s his shit. He didn’t even know Ian knew about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can probably still find most of it tomorrow. The house next door is vacant so no one will notice all the stuff out there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey groans and rolls his eyes to the sky. His head knocks back into the wall behind him, and he winces. He’s hit his head way too many fucking times tonight, he’s gonna give himself a concussion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever,” he grumbles under his breath, letting it go for now.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His gaze drops when they fall silent again, running along the edge of the fence until it lands on the bag by Ian. “Got any beer in there? Didn’t feel like having a drink with dear ol’ dad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian follows Mickey’s gaze, then looks up at Mickey, his lips pushing up in a lopsided smirk. “Actually. Yeah.” Ian leans down, pulling out two Old Styles. He makes an aborted movement, like he was about to toss it over to Mickey, then stops himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shifts, sliding himself across the bench until he’s right next to Mickey, stopping when their knees are touching. He holds the beer out to Mickey, who takes it. It’s slightly warm, but Mickey isn’t feeling picky. There’s twin cracks as they both open the tabs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should we toast?” Ian asks abruptly, looking over at Mickey, who’s holding the beer halfway to his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey squints, side-eyeing Ian. “Toast to fucking what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, feels like we should, though. To put it all to bed, you know?” He presses his lips together in thought. “To… being fucked up, but functional?” He says, half his face scrunching in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah? No? </span>
  </em>
  <span>expression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey snorts, thinking that maybe it isn’t too far from the mark. “Fuckin’ yeah, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But after they smack the bottoms of their cans together and Ian’s about to take his sip, Mickey watches Ian as he adds dryly, “To our daddy issues.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian’s not expecting it, which is what Mickey was aiming for, and he nearly inhales his beer. He coughs hard, nearly spilling his beer over Mickey’s leg. Mickey barely notices, because he’s too busy laughing at his husband.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Ian croaks, smacking at his chest to clear it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They grin at each other, then, and Mickey feels like he can breathe just a little bit better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a small thing, and it doesn’t magically resolve all the invisible wounds between them, those injuries that come from a place of hurt and vulnerability, but it feels like they've at least managed to stop bleeding on each other over it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air of forgiveness feels more like a healing balm than a band aid slapped over an open wound and called good for now. And Mickey thinks that, maybe, that’s fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> growth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey brings the beer can to his lips, and drains half of it in one go. He glances over at Ian, who’s sipping at his beer gingerly and looking up at the stars. The light off the field illuminates Ian’s features, bathing him in a bluish glow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And not for the first time, Mickey’s reminded of how much he’s filled out in the last few years, his young, boyish features now more angled and handsome. If Mickey squints, he can still see the remnants of freckles that Mickey would secretly count as a kid when he let himself get close enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches the way Ian’s throat moves as he swallows, and he’s struck with an idea—thinks their original plans can be saved after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey belches, and nudges Ian’s knee with his own. “Got anything else in that bag, Mary Poppins?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey can see the smile pressed to the lip of Ian’s beer. Ian licks it away, putting on a more thoughtful expression as he sets the beer in his lap. “Was gonna pack a picnic actually, but you know, it’s slim pickings until we go grocery shopping.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey makes a face at that, thinking that the next time he’s inconveniently horny, thoughts about grocery shopping would work just about as well as naked Frank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever, shit head. I’d believe that if I didn’t know how much of a boy scout you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t know what you mean, Mick.” Ian hums, hiding his smile as he takes another sip of his beer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey resists rolling his eyes. Instead, he kicks a leg out and manages to loop one of the bag’s straps around his boot, dragging it over. He drains his beer and crushes the can, throwing it to the ground. He reaches down to untangle his foot, then roots around in the bag, pushing the beers aside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brows furrow when he finds nothing besides the rest of the six pack inside the bag. And nothing still when he unzips the front pocket. “Jesus, you really didn’t--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you mean this?” Ian asks, and Mickey looks up at him, watching as Ian pulls a small plastic bottle from the front of his sweat pants’ pocket. He smirks as he tosses it to Mickey, who fumbles before catching it against his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a shit, you know that?” Mickey snorts, glancing at the lube in his hand, then up to Ian again. “Huh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really felt confident enough to bring this shit out here, not knowing what you’d find, huh?” Mickey asks, arching an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian scoffs, narrowing his eyes at Mickey. “You’re literally the one--” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey places the bottle of lube on the wood bench and swings himself over Ian, until he’s got both legs on the side of his, dropping into Ian’s lap. He lifts his arms, closing him in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could’ve been anybody out here. Did you think even if you didn’t find me, there was still a chance you’d get lucky?” Mickey teases, tongue between his teeth. He pushes his hips forward, grinding himself down into Ian’s crotch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian rolls his eyes at Mickey, his hands moving to Mickey’s hips to steady him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Ian mutters, leaning close to Mickey. “I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. There’s only two types of people that come out here this late, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?” Mickey hums, only half listening. Most of his attention on the growing bulge he feels under his ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thugs and sex freaks.” Ian says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s so matter-of-fact, that Mickey can’t help but bark out a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, but lucky for me, my husband just happens to be both,” Ian teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey gives Ian a flat look, a hand finding the back of Ian’s neck. He yanks him forward, until their mouths press firmly together, effectively shutting Ian up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sighs into the kiss when he feels Ian pull his bottom lip between his own. He hears Ian set his beer down, and he leans into the touch as large hands slip under his shirt and hoodie, dragging over the warm skin of his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian pecks a few more kisses to Mickey’s mouth. Mickey tries to chase his lips when Ian pulls back, but instead of letting the kiss land, he nudges the end of Mickey’s nose with his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Ian whispers to catch Mickey’s attention, suddenly serious. Mickey opens his eyes, nearly going cross-eyed at how close they are. He leans back slightly to look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we okay?” Ian asks. And Mickey takes in a breath, goes to answer, but he stops. The pause makes the skin between Ian’s ginger eyebrows wrinkle. “Are we okay?” He asks again, hopefully, a little bit pleadingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey breathes, and nods slowly. “Of course we are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Ian mutters, but he doesn’t look completely convinced. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But Ian,” Mickey continues, and he watches the way Ian’s shoulders tense. Mickey reaches up and grabs them, fingers pressing into the solid muscle. “Cut that shit out. Listen.” Mickey snips, keeping his hold on Ian’s shoulders until he feels then relax a bit under his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just so we’re clear, we’re in agreement that knocking heads ain’t the way we’re gonna solve our problems.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey Milkovich not solving problems with violence? Were you body snatched while you were gone?” Ian goads, and Mickey smacks him on the shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off. I’m serious here. No more fuckin’ tearing into each other when we’re pissed off or whatever. It’s kid shit. We gotta think like...” Mickey pauses, thinking. “WWNPD.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian blinks. “WWNPD?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What Would Normal People Do,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey shrugs, and Ian snorts hard. “Like WWJD, but you’ve had your Jesus impersonation card permanently revoked, per order of the Illinois justice system,” Mickey grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off.” Ian scrunches his face harder, but he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Okay. So, you think we can be, what, normal?” Ian asks, raising an eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck no,” Mickey snorts. “Nothin’ normal about us. And that’s just fine, cause we’d be fucking bored to tears of each other already if we were.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian snorts. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>But...”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But, we should like. I don’t know,” Mickey scrunches his face, flailing a hand about as he tries to get his thoughts out. “Go and beat the shit out of Frank or something instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That pulls a laugh out of Ian. “I don’t know if that would really fall under what normal people would do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any normal person who’s met Frank wants to knock him out,” Mickey mumbles, grumpily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It could be constructive. A real couple’s activity and shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t gotta twist my arm,” Ian shrugs. His hands move distractedly along Mickey’s ribs, and he takes a deep breath before he asks, “Are you gonna chill out now, about your dad?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey pushes a breath through his nose as he looks at Ian. It’s easier said than done, what he’s asking of Mickey. It’s not like paranoia is an on/off switch for him. But fuck, Mickey can figure out a way to keep an ear to the ground without freaking everyone out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, then, giving Ian his answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Ian murmurs. He leans in, his thumbs brushing Mickey’s sides. “We can iron out the details later.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sighs at the touch. The way that Ian’s hands nearly cover his entire rib cage makes him start to run a little hot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans in, filling the space and catching Ian’s lips in another kiss. Mickey’s hands slide over the soft fuzz of Ian’s buzzed hair at the back of his head, and Mickey knows that they’re done talking for now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is just as well, because Mickey feels like they’ve made enough progress for now. And even if opening up makes Mickey’s guts twist, he likes the way Ian feels loosened up under his touch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss heats up rather quickly after that. Ian tilts his head, and Mickey curls his tongue into his mouth. Mickey’s hips move on their own, grinding down into Ian’s lap until they’re both starting to get hard and breathing fast. Ian’s fingers dig into his back, his sides, his hips, anywhere they can reach, pushing his hoodie and shirt up along with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes some awkward maneuvering, but Mickey gets his jeans off his hips, kicking off his boots. He barely gets his pants off one leg before Ian’s yanking him back into his lap. He’s pulled back into a wet, demanding kiss, and Mickey can’t help but groan into it. Kissing Ian, especially during sex, has never failed to make Mickey weak in the fucking knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he hears the cap of the lube being opened, Mickey drags his hands from Ian’s hair to his chest. He shoves Ian back, swallowing the rough grunt when Ian’s back hits the concrete behind him. Mickey shimmies a bit further up, lifting up on his knees. He grabs Ian’s wrist, long fingers slick with lube, and guides his hand toward his ass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon,” Mickey mutters, nipping at Ian’s mouth impatiently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian smirks against Mickey’s lips, and grabs the meat of Mickey’s ass in both his hands. His hands spread Mickey open, and Mickey hisses as he smears the cool lube against him, drawing circles against Mickey’s hole with his fingertips. He does it a few times, quick circles turning slow, and Mickey knows Ian knows what he’s doing when he feels him smile into their kiss. Mickey bites Ian’s bottom lip hard as tattooed fingers slip under Ian’s shirt, pinching his nipple none too gently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes Ian yelp and jerk against Mickey, but it finally gets him moving with a hissed, “Okay, shit, okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums contentedly against Ian’s lips when he slips a finger in, and he pushes back against Ian’s hand. He adds another almost too quick, and the burn pulls a rough curse from Mickey. Even so, Ian keeps going, and Mickey loves every second of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey drags his hands down Ian’s chest, and he’s glad for convenience sake that Ian’s changed into a pair of sweatpants before coming to find him. He dips his hand under the waistband, finding Ian’s cock already hard and a little wet at the tip. Ian breaks the kiss when he looks down and groans, watching Mickey pull his cock out and jerk him in long, tight gripped strokes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes Ian’s fingers falter, and Mickey bucks his hips to take over, fucking himself on Ian’s fingers impatiently instead. “Fuck, come on, eyes on the prize, Gallagher,” Mickey grunts, grabbing hard on Ian’s hip to steady himself. Ian looks up then, his lips parted and a little damp from their kiss. He smirks up at Mickey, and without warning, he pushes his fingers into Mickey, sliding down to the last knuckle and burying his fingers so deep, Mickey has to fall forward onto Ian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey chokes, voice already ragged. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ian.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come here,” Ian mutters, sitting up. He slips his fingers out of Mickey, wiping them on the bit of shirt peeking out from under the hoodie. Mickey couldn’t care less, the shirt is a lost cause anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian lightly shoves Mickey back until he’s standing, and Ian follows suit. Once he has Ian hovering over him, Mickey reaches up and pulls Ian down by the nape of his neck, and kisses him again. While Mickey’s kissing Ian within an inch of his life, Ian slowly walks them backwards. Mickey takes in a sharp inhale when his back meets the chain link fence, Ian’s body pressing him firmly against it while it rattles under their weight. The metal is cold on Mickey’s bare ass, but he’s too far gone to really give a shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey tilts his head, about to shove his tongue back into Ian’s mouth when large hands grasp his hips. He pulls back with a wet smack when he’s spun around, facing out to the field. Ian’s body feels hot against his back as he sidles up behind him. A surprised grunt falls from Mickey’s lips when Ian kicks out at Mickey’s feet, making him spread his legs. The change in balance forces him to lean forward slightly and grab the fence for support. Mickey’s ass pushes out as he holds on, and the hands on his waist dig into the soft flesh of his hips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This how you want it?” He hears Ian ask, close to his ear. Mickey bites down on his lips and nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, yeah,” he groans, turning his head just enough to see Ian’s silhouette in the harsh lighting from the field. “Just like the good ol’ times, huh?” Mickey asks, his parted lips curling into a smile. He hears Ian let out a breath of a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re still in the good times, Mick.” Ian hums, kissing the top of Mickey’s head, which makes Mickey let out an abrupt snort. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nerd. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Just figure we don’t gotta change everything. Some old things are fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums in agreement. His one boot scrapes loudly on the concrete when he spreads his legs a little wider. “Better fucking hurry up before we become the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>old things.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian clicks his tongue at Mickey’s impatience, but Mickey sees his shadow nod. They’ve gotten past the feeling of being rushed when they fuck, for the most part. But, they’re still in public out here after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty sure you’re a little ahead of me,” Ian teases, long fingers threading through Mickey’s hair, a few silver strands catching the light. Mickey huffs and pushes himself back until he can feel the warm, rigid press of Ian’s cock against his ass cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes in a slow breath in anticipation, waiting for that blunt pressure to spread him open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still doesn’t come, and it makes Mickey kick his socked foot out behind him impatiently, hitting Ian’s ankle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck you waiting for?” He grumbles. But Ian doesn’t say anything, at first. Instead, he grabs the back of Mickey’s neck and pushes him down until Mickey’s leaned almost completely bent at the waist, the move forcing the breath from Mickey’s lungs. He can feel his cock react, twitching against the bend of his hip. Nearly a decade and Mickey still can’t get over the way Ian handles him, sometimes. Like he knows exactly what Mickey needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Mickey can say anything, Ian’s body is pressed along his back. The hand on his neck squeezes his nape, his thumb and fingers pressing into Mickey’s pulse. He can probably feel the way Mickey’s blood is racing under his touch. Ian’s lips find that sensitive spot behind Mickey’s ear, the one that never fails, even now, to pull a quiet curse from Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” Ian mutters, pecking at the delicate skin. Mickey bites his lip, stifling a groan as Ian finally pushes into him. His jaw drops when Ian bottoms out, his brain feels as if it’s going completely offline. Ian rolls his hips, just swallow little thrusts that build up until the quiet night around them is filled with the sound of flesh on flesh and the sharp shake of the fence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey,” Ian breathes, his breath hot and staticky in Mickey’s ear. “I wanna hear you say it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey is still in a bit of a daze, but he knows what Ian wants. He isn’t so far gone that he gives in so easily though, so he doesn’t reply, just peers over at him from the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hand on his nape circles around to Mickey’s throat, grip tight under his Adam’s apple. He pulls Mickey up slightly by the grip, firm but gentle with his neck. Mickey’s head leans back against Ian’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, say it,” Ian says, nearly a moan and almost a whine. “Please.” The angle of their bodies makes Ian’s cock drag into him in just the right way, and Mickey’s helpless against the raspy groan that yanks itself from his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck Ian,” Mickey breathes, voice tight against the hand on his throat. “I fucking love you,” he adds after a few quick, staccato grunts. “Fuck, I fucking love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian groans at his words, and Mickey takes every hard thrust Ian gives him, until he’s nearly breathless. Mickey feels a hand come up to cover his own on the fence. His fingers ache from the tight hold he has on the thick wires, but Ian’s whole hand envelopes his own between the gaps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey wants to call Ian a fucking sap, but just the gesture alone has Mickey fumbling close to the edge. His thighs shake, and he knows Ian is close too by the way his pace becomes erratic, the way his breath stutters behind his ear. Mickey pulls a hand free from the fence and grabs his cock, stroking hard and fast to keep up with Ian. His grunts become breathier, slightly more high pitched as he bites down on his lip, and his whole body pitches forward on it’s own. His head presses against the fence, his longer hair catching on some of the worn out metal, and he’s so close his whole body is tense with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Mick,” Ian huffs softly from behind him, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s sweaty temple. “C’mon, fucking do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey inhales sharply, and fucking does, all over the concrete half wall and metal fence. A short, loud grunt punches it’s way out of Mickey, his whole body trembling and tight as he comes. Ian’s hand releases Mickey’s throat, dragging across the side of his face and into his hair, gripping and pulling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a few hard, shallow thrusts, Ian’s coming too, his hips pressed flush against Mickey’s ass as he unloads inside him. A breathy curse falls from Ian’s lips, and Mickey can feel his teeth dig into the skin behind his ear, making Mickey inhale a quick breath through his teeth. He reaches behind him to drag his blunt nails across the back of Ian’s head, then gently stroke over the buzzed hair when Ian slows, then stops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s quiet between them again as they both try to catch their breaths. Mickey closes his eyes, and he can’t stop the smile that curls at the corners of his open mouth. It’s everything Mickey wanted in tonight before it all went to shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes him feel like a teenager again, but without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s fucked the same person, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>husband, </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the same spot where it all really kicked off for them. And he thinks, how maybe some things are the same, but fuck, how things are so different now. They’re not two scared teenagers with too much on their plates. They’re adults, only sometimes scared and definitely still too much on their plates. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The difference now, is that they freely love each other, can tell each other so without fear. They still fight and fuck up, but being in love is never a question. And maybe that’s barely anything to anyone else after nearly a decade, but it’s more than young Mickey could ever have hoped for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey feels a kiss pressed to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a warning before Ian pulls away, and out of him. Mickey straightens and pulls up his jeans. Ian’s release dampens his thighs and ass, but the uncomfortableness of it is a problem for future Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns in time to see Ian adjusting himself and straightening his sweatpants. When Ian catches him looking, he smiles shyly and steps forward, pulling at Mickey until he’s got him against his chest. Ian hugs his arms around Mickey, who grumbles at him, but lets himself tuck his head into the curve of his shoulder anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” Ian hums again, and this time, Mickey snorts at him. Even if it’s secretly Mickey’s kryptonite, he can really only take so much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, Barney, let’s pack it up,” he mumbles, trying to pull back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey doesn’t know the exact time, but he knows it’s real fucking late and their bed has been calling to him for hours. But Ian just tightens his hold, keeping Mickey against him in less of a hug, and more just to be obnoxious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love me,” Ian hums in a sing-songy voice, and yeah, Mickey’s definitely getting out of here. Post orgasm Ian is goofy as fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go out and fucking kill Barney or whatever,” Mickey grunts, jamming a hand between them. He grabs Ian’s crotch, and Ian finally jumps back, smacking Mickey’s hand away from his over sensitive dick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course that’s the version you’d go with,” Ian snarks, grabbing the backpack off the ground and pulling one strap over his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only version I remember,” Mickey shrugs, buttoning up his jeans and pulling the hoodie over any mysterious dark patches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucked up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Franny likes it.” And Mickey snickers as that earns him a smack on the chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They scale the fence together and drop to the other side. And while Mickey keeps a persistent eye out, he doesn’t stop Ian from draping an arm over his shoulders all the way back home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A couple days later, Mickey finds himself awake and staring at the wall late at night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not a stranger to suddenly waking up in the middle of the night, and most of the time he can roll over and fall right back to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But after nearly an hour of staring into the dark, this is clearly not one of those nights.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares squinty eyed at the soft light that casts across the opposite wall, the hazy orange of the street lamp near their window the only illumination in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s on his side facing out, Ian’s arm draped across his arm and chest as he snores softly into the back of Mickey’s head. He feels a little hot with Ian so close now that summer is in full swing. Even when they start to sleep apart to try and keep cool as much as possible, sometimes they still end up gravitating toward each other in the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey feels the sweat gathering at his temples and he groans, sneaking his arm out from under Ian’s and rubbing at his eyes, then wiping the sweat back with his palm. He slicks his hair back, and it feels tangled and wild between his fingers, no thanks to Ian who hours ago had been grabbing at it while he fucked Mickey into their mattress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns his head slightly, only able to make out half of Ian’s shoulder. He then glances up and squints his eyes further, trying to make out the time from the clock on the wall. He still can barely see in the dim light, but he thinks it’s around three in the morning. Mickey blows out an annoyed breath, wiggling himself as gently as he can out of Ian’s grip. He sits up, a little too close to the edge with Ian taking up most of the bed, and rubs at his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances down at Ian. Tattooed fingers gently brush over the soft crop of ginger hair until Ian’s snores even out to soft, quiet breaths. He doesn’t want to wake his husband, but Mickey knows from experience he’s not about to go right back to sleep any time soon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, he drops his hand and slides out of bed, tossing the rest of the blankets over Ian’s waist. Creeping around the room, Mickey finds a pair of boxers haphazardly folded on their dresser. He shrugs on the white tank top next to them. He can smell Ian on his clothes, but he really doesn’t give a shit if they’re dirty, especially if he’s just sneaking out for a quick smoke. He grabs his pack off the nightstand and shakes it, the lighter inside rattling dully against the cardboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to keep quiet still when he opens the bedroom door, keeping it open behind him as he turns to sneak down the stairs. The entire house is still, and a quiet Gallagher house has always felt eerie to him. Even the old pipes in the walls seem to be silent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey navigates slowly through the dark house, squinting and maneuvering around familiar shapes. He has to bite down onto his lip to keep from shouting when he steps on one of Franny’s small plastic toys in the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, fuck.” He bounces on one foot and grumbles under his breath. When the pain subsides he kicks the toy underneath the couch and heads into the kitchen, then unlocks the back door, pulling it open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air outside is balmy, and it makes Mickey’s clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin. He makes a face as he drops down onto the second step, leaning back and lighting up. There’s surprisingly not much going on at three am in their neighborhood. He can hear some cars revving in the distance, an ambulance wailing even further away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey smokes quietly as he listens to the world going on around him, rubbing his palm into a tired eye. He’s still a little groggy, small pieces of something he might have been dreaming of flashing vaguely in the back of his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s trying to make sense of them, mostly just for something to do while he sits outside, when he’s abruptly ripped from his thoughts when the door behind him is yanked open. Mickey jumps, whipping around and blinking away when he’s assaulted by the kitchen light coming through the open door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mornin’.” A voice greets, and it takes Mickey’s sluggish brain to realize it’s Sandy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck you doin’?” Mickey grunts, voice sleep rough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoying the witching hour. What are you doing?” Sandy asks, sounding far too awake for Mickey’s liking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck’s it look like, Glinda?” Mickey replies grumpily, trying to clear his sight of starbursts when Sandy closes the door behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sandy makes her way to the steps and flicks Mickey’s ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Friend of Dorothy,” she shoots back, sitting a step above Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grabs Mickey’s cigarette box from the step beside him, then makes a gimme hand at Mickey for the lighter. Mickey squints at her as he rubs his ear, but gives over the lighter without bitching. He watches Sandy light up, and takes back the lighter, then turns to face the street again. They’re quiet for a while, and even though Mickey’s finished, he doesn’t make a move to go back inside. Instead, he lights up another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Done avoiding me now?” Sandy asks, her knee hitting the side of Mickey’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the fuck said I’m avoiding you?” Mickey frowns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Haven’t talked to you since you picked me up from Terry’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what? We gotta talk every day now? Should we braid each other’s hair too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey grunts when she knees him again, harder this time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grumpy asshole,” she mutters, taking a slow drag. “Heard what happened with Franny,” she says, side eyeing him. No one’s talked about it since the incident, but it’s the Gallaghers, so everyone knows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Course you fucking did. The whole neighborhood’s probably heard.” Mickey grunts around a haze of smoke. “Debbie’s still pissed about it. Keeps tryin’ to kill me with her eyes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah,” Sandy hums and nods, pulling her cigarette back between two fingers. “The sex has been fantastic though, so thanks I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey makes a disgusted face and leans away from her. “I don’t wanna think ‘bout you fingerbangin’ my sister-in-law.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, I don’t have enough</span>
  <em>
    <span> hands</span>
  </em>
  <span> to count how many times I’ve overheard you and that husband of yours rubbing your matchsticks together.” Sandy huffs, her face looking just as disgusted as his moments before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey rolls his eyes and sits up, leaning back against the edge of the step. From his peripheral, he can see the end of Sandy’s cigarette spark in the darkness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You ever come up with a plan?” Mickey asks out of curiosity, ashing between the slats of the porch railing. He can feel Sandy shift beside him, shrugging. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah. Turns out I’m actually pretty shit at making up plans that don’t involve at least one of us going to jail,” she drawls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Makes two of us then,” Mickey mutters, scratching at his stubbly jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Must be a Milkovich thing,” Sandy says dryly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums in agreement, blowing out smoke through his nose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got rid of my gun. You can tell Debbie that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I watched lover-boy throw your shit across the yard,” Sandy drawls, smirking over at Mickey. “It was fucking hilarious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey snorts at that. He’d managed to find most of his things, but he has a suspicion that Carl might have gotten to it first. He’s definitely missing a couple switch blades and an expensive pair of brass knuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still got that piece stashed under Debbie’s driver’s seat,” Sandy says, looking over at Mickey. “If you ever need something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s she feel about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What she doesn’t know…” Sandy hums.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why </span>
  </em>
  <span>do you have it?” Mickey asks. Not that he’s never seen Sandy with a gun, but she’s always been more keen on fighting with her fists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sandy shrugs, and Mickey watches her cigarette butt sail across the air onto the concrete at the end of the steps. “Started bringing it with me when I stayed at your dad’s house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey pauses at that, scrunching his brows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s about to speak again, but movement across the yard catches his attention instead. His whole body goes tense as his gaze follows the shadowed figure, making its way off the sidewalk and up the grass. Instinctively, Mickey lists any and all things he could use as a weapon around him, in case the figure isn’t a friendly one. And at three am in the middle of the week, it’s very likely it isn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shoots up on the step, and Sandy must see the figure now too, because she makes an alarmed sound in her throat, scrambling up to stand next to Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got ten seconds, asshole, or I’m lighting your ass up,” Mickey calls, though he’s trying not to shout. He doesn’t need to be waking the whole fucking house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The figure stops suddenly, and Mickey can see the person swaying on his feet unsteadily. Probably drunk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey lets out a harsh breath. “Think it’s fucking Frank,” he hisses to Sandy, annoyed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s not Frank’s voice that carries across the yard when the person calls back, “That any way to greet your own flesh and blood?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey blinks his surprise and squints in the darkness. “Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Iggy?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ,” Mickey hears Sandy mutter beside him, sinking back down onto the step. She lets out a slow breath and brushes back her hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one and only,” Iggy responds, starting to walk toward them again. When he’s close enough, Mickey can see the grin on his face and the glassiness of his eyes. Definitely drunk, or high. Probably both. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the dim light, Mickey takes in his brother’s appearance. He’s always been a little shaggy, his clothes as threadbare and frayed as Mickey’s used to be. But Mickey doesn’t think it’s the harsh light of the street lamps that makes Iggy look worse for the wear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look like shit,” Mickey grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. His half done cigarette hangs from his lip. Iggy makes a face at Mickey and flips him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off, Justin Bieber,” his brother shoots back, and Mickey had to resist the urge to run a hand through his hair self consciously. “Hello, by the way, rude fuck. Sandy.” Iggy greets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” Sandy asks dryly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy grins wider and Mickey finally sees the bagged liquor bottle in his hand when he holds it up. “Drinkin’!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking lurking in the dark, looking to get your head blown off’s more like it.” Mickey snaps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S’quiet out here. I thought I was gonna be walkin’ up on a block party,” Iggy says as he eyes both Sandy and Mickey, taking a swig from his liquor bottle. Mickey’s eyebrows furrow at that, and he glances down at Sandy, who shrugs at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would we be doing that?” Mickey asks as he looks back at Iggy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy raises his eyebrows, shooting a look between them again. He looks surprised, then confused. “Has no one come by?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyone else comes near this house and I’m shooting their ass on sight,” Mickey grits, tensing at the idea of any other Milkoviches stepping foot near his house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would anyone be coming here?” Sandy asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy blinks at them, then makes a funny little face that Mickey can’t quite decipher. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dad’s dead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long, almost comically awkward pause between them while all three Milkoviches stare at each other. No one can seem to say anything at first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, Mickey’s ears start to ring. He looks at Iggy, like maybe he hadn’t heard right, or maybe he’s missing the punchline, but all Iggy does is stare right back, arching a brow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The steps under Mickey’s feet feel unsteady suddenly, and he has to uncross his arms to hold onto the railing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, it’s Sandy who asks,</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, are you serious?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy turns his attention to Sandy, pulling another sip from his paper covered bottle. “Serious as a heart--” Iggy cuts himself off with a giggling laugh, waving a hand in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck you talkin’ about?” Mickey feels himself say, his own voice ragged in his ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The old man’s ticker gave out or somethin’ the other night. He didn’t show up for a drop and one of the cousins found him yesterday morning on the floor. Said he hit his head on the way down. Looked like a murder scene when I got there,” Iggy explains, so nonchalant like he’s talking about the weather and not their dad fucking being dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just saw him a couple days ago,” Mickey says, almost distractedly. Iggy just shrugs at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns his head slowly, looking down at Sandy, who’s looking shiftily between Iggy and Mickey. “You didn’t know about this?” He demands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been here,” she explains, looking at him wide-eyed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey pulls his gaze away from them both, running a hand through his grown out hair. “Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was seriously a heart attack?” Sandy asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or stroke or whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Sandy says, unconvinced. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what they’re saying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s saying?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He fuck over anyone recently?” Mickey asks, eyes fixed on the street lamp across the way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want a fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> list?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Iggy snorts indelicately. “Guess Terry’s been busy. Not just going after you and your guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey chews at his bottom lip, hard enough he can feel a couple dry spots pull under his teeth. He nods slowly, pushing off the porch railing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Mickey rasps. “Get the fuck outta here Igg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow,” he hears Iggy mutter dryly. “No come together moment for the Milkovich kids?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey ignores him, turning back toward the door. Any kind of closeness they had fell apart when Mandy had left, he thinks to himself. Maybe even before then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the thought of his sister makes him stop, hand on the door knob. Mickey half turns, looking over his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does Mandy know?” Mickey asks. Iggy doesn’t seem to reply right away, or he’d shrugged before realizing Mickey wasn’t actually looking at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t got her number,” Iggy says finally. “Hey, do you got it? She’d probably wanna know or whatever.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Mickey ignores him again after getting his answer. He doesn’t have it, though he suspects Ian does. He brings her up to Mickey now and then, and from what he can gather she’s doing okay for herself. She doesn’t need to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey swings open the door and slams it shut behind him, leaving Sandy to deal with Iggy’s shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t walk any further into the house though, just standing in front of the door and staring out into the dark rooms ahead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels weird. Numb, and uneasy like he’s been dropped into an alternate reality that isn’t quite right. The uncanny feeling makes his skin crawl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure when it happened, but the kitchen walls seem to have moved in closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knob of the backdoor hits him in the kidney when it swings open, and Mickey jolts forward, pressing a hand into his lower back. He grunts in pain, turning toward the door as he rubs at the sore spot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey snaps, glaring at Sandy as she steps into the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Sandy drawls, shutting the door behind her. She’s searching Mickey’s face as she stands in front of him, eyes a little wild. “You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Mickey snaps again, pulling a hand away from his back and turning away from Sandy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure?” Sandy presses, and Mickey’s suddenly aware of how harsh his breaths are in the silent kitchen. “You looked like you were gonna pass out, out there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scratches at his eyebrow as he makes his way over to the washer and dryer, yanking the door to the dryer open. He roots around in the clothes he’d seen Ian put in earlier. He pulls out a pair of his jeans, throwing them on. He hears Sandy coming up behind him as he buttons up, and he’s quick to turn to keep her from being at his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” She questions, her face twisted in confusion. Mickey doesn’t reply as he leans back down to the opening of the dryer, pulling out a flannel, sleeveless shirt and shrugging it on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” Sandy pushes, her voice sounding a little more urgent. She crowds him at his side, tilting her head to look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Mickey isn’t in the mood to be hovered over, and he waves at her until she backs up from him. She scoffs at him, but keeps her distance and crosses her arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, seriously, what are--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking worry about it,” Mickey grunts, running a hand through his hair as he turns into the living room. He nearly collides with the edge of the couch, managing to clip his side as he passes it by. He thinks the living room looks a little smaller too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey--” Sandy hisses somewhere behind him, but he keeps moving, spotting his boots by the door. He hurriedly steps into them, shoving the laces inside. As he’s leaned over, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jumps and shoves a hand out, stumbling back into the coats hanging by the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Je</span>
  </em>
  <span>sus!” Sandy yelps as she jerks back, catching herself and whispering the second half. “Are you freaking the fuck out or what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey, your dad--” She starts, a little too loudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey hisses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want me to wake up Ian or something?” Sandy asks, face pinched like it’s the last thing she wants to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck no,” Mickey snaps, glancing up at the darkened stairway to his side. “Leave me the hell alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you at least tell me what the hell you’re--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to get some air, Sandy, Jesus fucking Christ. Back off.” Mickey snaps. He grabs the door handle and yanks the front door open. He takes a step outside then turns to Sandy, who’s standing beside the stairs with a baffled, concerned look on her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want me to come with you?” Sandy asks, at the same time Mickey asks, “Where were you the last few days?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Sandy frowns at him, giving Mickey a once over. “I said I was here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The whole time?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sandy squints at him, arms folding over her chest. “The fuck are you getting at?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no fucking way my dad just dropped dead--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Iggy said it was a heart attack or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or fucking something,” Mickey snorts, eyes bouncing between Sandy and the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you think it was me? You can’t be fucking serious,” She makes a face at him, like he couldn’t get any more stupid. “Like come the fuck on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>have more of a reason to kill Terry than I do. And who gives a fuck, he’s fucking dead either way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey feels his stomach drop, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. She does have a point though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Terry isn’t going to get done over by a bad fucking heart.” Mickey counters. All of it just feels so wrong. “Something fucking happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was old and did so many drugs his blood was probably fucking toxic. Probably caught up with him,” Sandy shrugs. “Alright? So, are you going to come back in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey licks his lips, dropping his gaze to his feet. He’s got one foot out the door and a hand still on the door handle. “I just need a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey--” Sandy starts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t wait for the rest, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. He throws open the gate and heads in the direction of the Milkovich house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s knuckles are on fire. They’re swollen and scabbed over, the words etched into his skin barely twenty-four hours old. He flexes his right hand, feeling the pull of the fresh and crude tattoos. The skin around the letters is inflamed, probably infected, but Mickey doesn’t give a shit. He’ll wash the tattoo out later with vodka like Iggy told him to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right now, he wants to feel the ache in his hands, like it means something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears a quiet sound below him and Mickey slides his hands into sandy blond hair, grabbing at the locks that spring up between his fingers. The lips around his dick tightens and Mickey bucks his hips, making the boy on his knees in front of him choke again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“C’mon,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey hisses impatiently under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy isn’t great, but Mickey figures beggars can’t be fucking choosers when getting blown in an asbestos dusted room of a condemned building. It takes entirely too long for Mickey’s liking, but eventually he comes with a quiet grunt, then yanks the other boy by the hair and pushes him away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other guy,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Devin? David? </span>
  </em>
  <span>fumbles to his feet as Mickey zips up his too loose jeans, facing away from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t spare the other a glance as Mickey heads toward the broken open door, fully intending to make his exit without another word exchanged between them. Better to get his kicks and ditch as fast as he can without thinking about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, the other guy is either really new at back alley trysts or stupid as fuck, because before Mickey can leave, he’s running up behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, that was fun,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the boy says, sounding a little put off. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daniel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey decides. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, whatever,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey grunts, keeping his eyes on the street in front of him. As Mickey walks a little faster, the footsteps behind him pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t worry about returning the favor, I guess,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Daniel says, snippily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wasn’t worried,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey mumbles under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Should’ve expected as much from a Milkovich.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s boots grind into the grit of the pavement, his last name stopping him in his tracks with a keen sense of dread. He had no idea the guy even knew who he was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey spins around, glaring daggers into the other kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The fuck did you just say?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey growls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re a Milkovich, right?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Daniel says, his arms crossing over his chest. He glances at Mickey’s hands when he says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“My dad calls you guys Nazi drug pushers,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sneers, and Mickey thinks yeah, this guy is definitely a fucking idiot with no sense of self preservation when he says,</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Never figured one of you would be gay—Whoa!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey quickly storms back to the other boy, giving him no chance to get away as Mickey grabs him by the collar of his shirt. He’s slightly taller than Mickey, but not by much, and Mickey drags him down until they’re eye level. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Let’s get this straight,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mickey spits.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “I ain’t no fucking queer.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The boy blinks back at him, eyes wide in distress. He lets out an incredulous breath.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Dude, I just sucked your dick.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something ugly rolls around in Mickey’s stomach, and he feels it clawing its way up into his chest. It feels like anger, but it tightens in his throat like fear. He tightens his grip on the other boy’s shirt to keep it from shaking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You talk too fucking much,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey sneers, shoving the kid into the brick wall of the building, pointing into his face. The kid yelps and stares wide eyed at Mickey.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Broken glass grinds under their feet. Mickey’s body is tense, but his body moves on muscle memory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You tell anybody and I’ll show you what a loose lipped faggot gets, fucking got it?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mickey hisses, but it doesn’t feel like his voice, they don’t feel like his words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid nods frantically at Mickey, and Mickey sinks his fist into his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves the building a few minutes later, stepping out into the street. His fist is sore and his knuckles are bloody, the words etched into them split open. He rubs at them unthinkingly, spreading the blood and dirt across his hands. He wrings his hands until they’re aching so bad he has to shove them into his jacket pockets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel like he usually does after a beat down. He’s not running high on adrenaline, like he does when it’s him and his brothers against some unfortunate asshole; there’s no sense of gratification. Or satisfaction, or thrill. He just feels empty. Instead of being filled with all the things that come with fighting, he feels scooped out, devoid of everything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sniffs and brushes his fingers against his nose, leaving a dirty smudge that he doesn’t bother to wipe away. He ignores the way his eyes sting the whole way home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He storms up the rickety steps and shoves the door open to the Milkovich house. Despite it being the middle of the day, it’s gray and dark like usual inside. Mickey can see the dust motes against the line of sun coming in from the doorway. He slams the door behind him, darkening it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The commotion catches the attention of his mom and Mandy, the two sitting sideways on the couch. Laura’s got a brush in her hand, attempting to get the knots out of Mandy’s unruly hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“What crawled up your ass?”</em> Mandy calls to him. Laura looks at Mickey, her hands stilling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Eat shit.”</em> Mickey sneers and flips them off, mumbling under his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stomps a straight shot to his room, and slams the door with all it’s signage behind him. Mickey rips off his jacket and scarf, throwing them onto the floor over a pile of clothes already shoved into a corner. He gulps at air as he looks around his room, then down at his messy hands. The red is muddied with the brown dirt caked into his skin, the black scabs on his knuckles shine underneath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Fuck,”</em> he hisses under his breath and walks toward his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drops down onto the edge, his face burying into his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut when they start to sting again. That angry edge is still sitting like a stone deep in his belly. The way the fear clutches at him like it’s making permanent roots in his chest makes him nauseous, and his eyes squeeze tighter as he thinks over and over again, that he just wants it all to go away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to be like his dad, like his brothers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a knock at his door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sharp tap on the wood makes him jump and pull out from his hands, sitting up straight like he doesn’t want to be caught doing something wrong.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“What,”</em> Mickey snaps, staring a hole into the scuffed up door. Slowly, it opens, and his mom appears, peering from the other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels his shoulders relax at the sight of her, but he quickly catches himself. Turns his face into a sneer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“What,”</em> he repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mom tentatively moves further into the room, her skinny arms crossing under her chest. She’s a little folded in on herself, her makeup a little smudged. Her eyes are clear and blue, and they match Mickey’s at least in color. She’s always had a permanent tension in the corner of her eyes that Mickey’s yet to gain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Hey,”</em> she greets quietly. Her voice is softer and more unsteady these days than Mickey remembers.<em> “Did something happen, Mikhailo?” </em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Mickey,”</em> he corrects sharply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mom purses her lips together, and Mickey can see her fingers press harder into her upper arms.<em> “Did something happen?”</em> She repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“No,”</em> he grunts, looking away from her. He brushes his knuckles across one eyebrow, passing over the damp corner of his eye in a swift move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laura bites at her lip, then tilts her head at Mickey. <em>“You can talk to me, you know.” </em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey scoffs at her, still facing away. His hand drops to the edge of his bed and he grips the old mattress hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Don’t gotta talk to you about shit,”</em> he snaps, grumbling and clipped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still facing away, he hears his mom sigh. He doesn’t realize she’s gotten closer until she’s resting a hand on his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Sweet boy,”</em> she sighs, and it makes Mickey immediately bristle.<em> “I can see it on your face. If you’re worried about me telling your dad--“</em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on, Mikhailo, you don’t--“</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><em><span>“It’s</span></em> <span>Mickey. </span><span><em>Everyone calls me that,”</em> he snaps again, shrugging hard until her hand falls off his shoulder.<em> “Mikhailo is fucking stupid,”</em> he says. It’s what Terry always says. It’s a stupid name. A soft name. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>A palm connects to his cheek, and the slap surprises him enough to cover the side of his stinging face. He looks up at Laura, her face thunderous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not a stupid name. It’s </span>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span><em>name!”</em> She yells, wrapping her arms back around her middle. Her fingers of each hand rub together at her elbows.<em> “I gave you that name!”</em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey knows where his name came from. Terry had been in jail when Mickey was born, and Laura had picked it out, foregoing whatever it was Terry had wanted. He’s the only one that Terry’s never had a say in, he thinks. It’s probably why his dad hates it so much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“I don’t fucking care! And I don’t wanna talk to you!”</em> Mickey sneers and stands up, making Laura step back. He’s still small for his age, but he’s taller than Laura. <em>“Just get the hell out!”</em> He yells. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mom stands stubbornly, staring at him. <em>“Mikha--"</em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“It’s Mickey!”</em> He screams, because he can’t do this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always been teased for being a mama’s boy. The last time he’d cried, he’d gone to his mom. She had hugged him, and Mickey had been so upset he hadn’t noticed Terry sitting at the kitchen table. Terry had gotten up and nearly yanked Mickey’s arm out of it’s socket, yelling about turning Mickey into a pansy. The cold steel look his father had given him had made him shutter, and he’d stopped going to Laura after that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks at him, then. It’s not the first time since Mickey’s become a teenager that they’ve fought, but it’s the first time she’s ever looked at him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Defeated; deeply hurt and disappointed. She sniffs hard, then spins on her heels to leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“Just like your father,”</em> Mickey hears her mumble shakily under her breath, the door shaking as it slams behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only that were true, he thinks bitterly</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey stands there, listening to her retreating stomping steps.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips part, letting out a hard, trembling breath. He can feel it, that heavy weight in the middle of his chest threatening to burst. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sharp, wet breath escapes him, and Mickey stomps over to the beaten up stereo system on his dresser. He presses play on whatever cd he’d left in there, jabbing his finger against the volume button until it’s the only thing he can hear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets back to his bed, he falls onto his back on the squeaky spring mattress. He stares at the water stained ceiling until it starts to swim and distort in his vision. He feels the warm tears break free and dampen his temples. His dirty hands fly up to cover his eyes. His breathing stutters, and he bites down hard onto his lip and he cries, letting the music down him out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After that day, they don’t see much of each other. His mom is out of the house more; Mickey doesn’t go looking for her like he used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, Mickey meets a freckle faced kid with a sweet smile that disarms Mickey in ways he’s never felt before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, during Mickey’s brief stint in juvie, Laura’s gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey jerks as something wet splatters against his face, barely managing not to slap himself in his sleepy state. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light he can see behind his eyelids make him cautious as he squints his eyes open and he looks around; the first thing he sees is a very dark, gray sky above him half hidden behind a wall of rotten wood. The sound of rain hitting pavement is all around him, and as he slowly comes to, he’s suddenly very aware that half his body is drenched in water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey groans out a tortured sound and slowly rolls to one side away from the rain and the pressure on his back, stopping short when his stomach gives a worrying lurch as he moves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes in through his nose a few times, and then steeling himself, forces himself to sit all the way up in one wobbly go. He hunches forward into his hands once he’s up, rubbing his palms over his aching head and tired face. His mouth feels fuzzy and his throat clicks when he swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck me,” he grumbles to himself, wincing against the lightning strike of pain in his temples.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rubs at them, attempting to alleviate some of the pain. As he does, he tries to take stock of where the hell he is and why he’s there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers talking to Sandy on the porch. He remembers Iggy showing up. He remembers going to the twenty-four hour gas station and picking up a bottle of Jack. He remembers walking up to the Milkovich house and finding it strangely devoid of people. He remembers sitting on the porch and downing liquid courage to convince himself to go inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember much else after that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey drops his hands into his lap and looks around with one eye squinted shut. He’s surrounded by a crumbling porch and heaps trash; bottles and old, broken appliances litter the front of the Milkovich house, and when Mickey turns to look behind him, he realizes he’d passed out on a pile of black trash bags filled with fuck knows what. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grimaces and lifts his shoulders, trying to stretch out the aching muscles of his back, then clumsily stands up. It takes a shaky attempt or two, but he eventually gets to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His foot knocks into something that thunks heavily on the wood and he looks down, seeing a bottle of Jack Daniels with about a quarter of the amber whiskey left in it. He bends down and grabs it, holding the neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He licks at his mouth and makes a face, then he pulls some of the whiskey into his mouth, swishing it around and ignoring the bubbling in his stomach as he spits it back out onto the splintering wood at his feet. Just enough to replace the thick, grody taste on his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes a disgusted sound in his throat and tosses the bottle to join the rest of the shit on the porch. He takes in a slow breath and he looks up, his gaze locking onto the peeling front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He already knows it’s unlocked because he remembers trying the handle before chickening out and curling himself into the corner of the porch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey looks away and peers into one of the dirty front windows. He searches for any sign of life in the house. He has to squint through the opaque brown layer on the glass, and he tries to scrape away at it with his thumbnail, but it’s just as dirty on the inside as it is on the outside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From what he can tell, the house is quiet inside. He hasn’t seen anyone since last night, which is odd since even now this house is a revolving door of Milkoviches. It’s almost as bad as the Gallagher house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking of the Gallaghers, Mickey realizes that he’s technically been missing since the early morning. He makes a face and pats at his pockets to check his phone for the time and what he’s sure is a slew of irate notifications from Ian, but he comes up empty handed. He’d forgotten his phone on their nightstand, and the thought of grabbing it hadn’t managed to squeeze itself in between the all consuming thought of his dad turning up dead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey inhales sharply through his nose. Fuck. Right. Terry’s dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like he’d forgotten. It’s just… it feels like reliving a car accident over and over again every time he’s reminded of it. It’s that sense of blissful unawareness before the truck comes out of nowhere and blindsides you. It's that few seconds after it hits where it doesn’t feel like it’s really happening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans away from the window, setting his sights on the door again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy had said that they’d found the old man in the house. He bites into his bottom lip as his stomach clenches. Fuck knows what’s waiting on the other side of that door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the inside out, the Milkovich house already looks like a caricature of a haunted house. Dilapidated and splintering on every edge and corner, Mickey knows that there are parts where light never quite reaches. There are ghosts that roam through doors and halls, residual hauntings just waiting to be triggered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to go into that house, but he’s there for that reason only. He needs to know. There’s no way he can go back home now without crossing that threshold. Without making sure that Terry’s really gone for good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His feet are moving before he can think about it. His fingers clench on the brass doorknob when he grabs it. It rattles in his hand, loose from too many years of being broken into. He holds onto the door, and breathes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lock clicks, and the door opens. It whines on rusty hinges and softly clunks against the wall as it fully opens. Mickey can see from the door frame that the house is dark, looking dirtier and messier than he remembers, if it’s even possible. The couch in the living room is lopsided, the frame broken on one side. There’s trash littering the coffee table and patchy carpet. The throw pillows on the overstuffed chair are flat and stained. The walls are dark and streaked from years of cigarette smoke. It looks like absolute chaos, and he expects the usual roaring in his ears, but it’s so, so quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey anxiously licks his lips and steps inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any’a you fuckers home?” He calls, then clears his throat. His voice sounds raw and uneven in the quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes in and makes a face. The place smells like shit. Like cigarettes and old beer and B.O., and something sickly sweet. As he steps in further, halfway into the living room and closer to the kitchen he’s assaulted with a strong, burning chemical smell. Bleach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops in his tracks at the smell; the overwhelming scent makes his stomach turn. It definitely doesn’t belong there. The Milkovich house has never seen a single clean day in it’s life, save Ian’s attempts during his manic episodes years ago. Something like bleach would only be used by a Milkovich to clean up a real big mess, and destroy anything left behind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes Mickey’s hands fidget at his sides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathing shallowly, trying to keep his stomach from flipping around too much, his attention turns to his left. His old bedroom sits directly in his sights, completely agape, the door missing off its hinges. From what he can see, there’s no sign of himself in that room anymore. His posters and drawings are all gone. There’s new holes in the walls, and his bed frame is missing, leaving only a mattress shoved into the corner by the single window, covered in dirty blankets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His line of sight then trails slowly down the dark hallway, down to where his father’s room is. If Mickey squints in the shadows, he can see the closed wood door at the end of the hall. His hands clench into fists. He moves towards the hall. Away from the chemical smell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds the door really is tightly closed when he gets to it. Somehow, it looks like the most solid thing in the house. The off white paint is chipped over most of it, but the steel deadbolt that sits at eye level stares back at Mickey. He grabs the handle and it turns in his hand. His pulse kicks up as it turns, turns, and he pulls. The door doesn’t budge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Mickey spits between clenched teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey only has vague memories of what the room looks like beyond the door. His mom had taken him in there a few times when Mickey was real young and fussy. He remembers it smelling like her, but the walls and furniture were covered in hateful shit that he was too young to understand at the time. Mickey grits his teeth and tries the handle again, but the door just rattles and stays shut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey curses under his breath, pulling his hand off the door knob. He smacks his palm against the hard wood a few times, and some of the paint flakes off and sticks to his hand and falls to the floor. He steps back and exhales hard, rubbing his other hand over his mouth as he turns back toward where he came. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes it a single step before he’s turning back and kicks the door hard, leaving a black boot print on the paint. There’s a hairline crack where he kicks, but it still doesn’t move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Mickey mutters, maybe to the room, most definitely to Terry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps out into the living room, and he’s once again hit with the burning bleach smell. This time, he doesn’t let himself slow, and he barges through the living room. He steps over trash and kicks empty beer cans out of his way until his boots hit linoleum, and only when he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen does he stop. It’s as much a mess as the rest of the house. There’s dishes piled in the sink and black mold hiding in the corners of the ceiling. There’s guns and random paraphernalia piled up on the counter and the top of the fridge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As much of a wreck as it is, it doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary happened there. It’s a matching chaotic sight to the rest of the rooms. The only thing that seems off is the smell. The chemical smell that irritates his nose and stings his lungs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soles of Mickey’s boots squeak on the floor as he turns and looks around, trying make sense of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy could’ve been lying, sure, and maybe if Mickey had thought it through, it would’ve made the perfect opportunity for a trap. Mickey kind of hates that it hadn’t dawned on him sooner; he’s alone, and no one knows that he’s there. It could’ve been so easy to get him alone with Terry. He could’ve walked in and Terry could’ve just as easily been sitting there at the kitchen table, waiting to put a bullet in Mickey’s head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey guesses his only saving grace for never having that happen is that Iggy doesn’t really get his kicks that way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His rubber soles squeak again as he turns and faces out of the kitchen, and he nearly eats it when he trips on a plastic ashtray that’s been knocked to the floor. He steadies himself and he looks down, ready to kick it away. His leg freezes in the air behind him, then slowly sets back down to the floor, and he realizes the spot he’s been standing in looks scrubbed real fucking clean. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh shit,” Mickey says, scrambling back. “Oh fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His back hits the counter and he grabs onto the edge. The contrast between the dirty parts of the floor and the uneven human sized spot is stark, and Mickey wonders how the hell he’d missed it in the first place. It’s streaky, but it’s clearly where someone made an effort to clean up a mess. Mickey’s lips fall open as he spots a pile of dirty rags shoved underneath the kitchen table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. If he needed proof, short of a body, this is as good as he’s gonna get. They might as well have drawn out the shape of a body in chalk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And really, it dawns on Mickey that he doesn’t give a fuck how it happened. Natural causes or not, it doesn’t matter. Iggy could’ve told Mickey that god him-fucking-self came down and struck Terry where he stood and it wouldn’t fucking matter. Either way, Terry’s death had been a product of his own lifestyle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey has fantasized since he was a kid all manner of ways he wished Terry dead. Sometimes it’s a grizzly accident with action movie levels carnage, sometimes Mickey’s got his hands on Terry’s throat screaming in his face every single incident he’s ever wronged him. He’s imagined everything from pissing on Terry’s grave to fucking Ian over the dirt heap until the grave stone crumbles beneath them. Imagining his dad’s death was a comforting scenario when Mickey felt his worst, when it was all he felt he had to cling to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s just that, Terry’s really fucking dead. For real this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beyond the initial shock there’s relief there, like he expects. A sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally free.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Just like he’d imagined once Terry finally died. It makes Mickey a little giddy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy fucking shit,” Mickey says, trailing into a breathless laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Terry had always made it a point in recent years to let Mickey know he’d fully intended on digging Mickey’s grave long before he saw his own. He’d made plenty of attempts to prove that point. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really screwed the pooch on that one, didn’t ya, pops?” Mickey says to the room. “Just fuckin’ look at me now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs again, his voice hanging in the bleach stained air of the room. Mickey himself has always been his father’s greatest fucking failure. He hopes he kicked it knowing that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But as Mickey continues to stand in the Milkovich kitchen, staring at that haphazardly cleaned linoleum and clutching at the sticky counter, something heavy starts to crawl it’s way in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s slow, creeping its way through Mickey as he rides high, so he doesn’t notice it at first. That weightless sense of reprieve from Terry and all the shit that came with him, gradually starts to fall away to a weightier feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to laugh again to disperse the sensation, but it sounds too forced, too fake. His smile flickers, lips twitching at the corners until he has to suck them in between his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s that car crash feeling again. That dazed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this isn’t real </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling. But it’s different. There’s a twist to it. It’s that, sitting in the car and the hood’s starting to smoke and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh shit, that really fucking happened </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey whispers, so quietly only the ‘ck’ sound is audible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wipes a hand over his mouth, he can feel the saliva gathering on his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first heave is a surprise, muffled by his hand. The second is a body clenching warning, his shoulders shivering as he launches himself off the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His knees feel like rubber, and he has a half thought to just puke his guts out onto the nasty carpet, but he’s already gunning out the door. He doesn’t want to think of the splinters he’ll find later shoved into the meat of his palms as he grabs the rail of the porch, emptying his stomach over the side. It isn’t much, since he hasn’t consumed anything but booze in the last half dozen or so hours, but the sour taste makes his nose run and his eyes water anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s breathing hard over the side of the house, nails digging into the soft rot wood under his hands when he hears footsteps behind him. Mickey just closes his eyes, too exhausted to look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa, looks like someone finally found the party.” Mickey hears behind him as he spits over the rail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck you doing here?” Mickey asks. He straightens and wipes his mouth against his arm and turns. Iggy’s standing at the bottom of the steps, giving Mickey a scrunched look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I fucking live here, dick breath,” Iggy snorts. Mickey makes a face back and scans the street. The only other person outside besides them is someone walking their dog up a ways. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s everyone else?” Mickey asks, looking back at Iggy. His brother shrugs and walks up the steps, taking cover from the drizzling rain under the porch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Been partying at the graveyard all night. Wanna give the old man a proper send off, you know?” Iggy says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey can see his eyes are bloodshot as his brother scans the porch. He severely doubts it’s from crying. Iggy makes a noise in his throat when he spots Mickey’s Jack embedded in a pile of tied up grocery bags. He grabs it, body swaying a little unsteadily when he stands, inspecting the bottle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Plus it really fucking reeks inside,” he adds before unscrewing the top and taking a sip. “Gotta air that shit out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, not surprised cleaning makes you scatter like cockroaches,” Mickey grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy clicks his tongue at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at you talkin’ shit like you ain’t a Milkovich too. You think ‘cause you married a Gallagher you’re suddenly better than us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Talkin’ shit cause I’m a Milkovich that fucking knows Milkoviches,” Mickey snaps, then reaches for the bottle in Iggy’s hand. “Gallagher’s ain’t much fucking better. Give me that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy’s about to protest, but Mickey’s quicker and he grabs the bottle, washing the acidic taste out of his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking gross, asshole,” Iggy grimaces, but he takes the bottle back when Mickey tosses it to him. There’s a pause as he makes a lazy attempt to wipe the mouth of the bottle on his threadbare shirt, then drinks from it. “So, what are you doing down here instead of up in your ivory tower?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a question Mickey doesn’t really feel like answering. He’s not eve sure he really understands why. “None of your fucking business.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, you’re bitchy,” Iggy snorts. “Can’t ask you why the hell you’re home when you got it so good kicking your feet up at the Gallagher house?” Iggy mocks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of answering, Mickey asks, “How the fuck do you still live here, the place looks like it’s going to collapse like a house of cards.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy shrugs, looking up at the decaying house. “Dunno. Don’t gotta pay to live here, there’s always someone around with party favors. Why would I leave?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even after all the shit that went down in this fucking place? Doesn’t it fucking bother you?” Mickey hears himself ask, and he immediately wants to take it back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Milkovich kids never really talked about what went on in the house, only now and then helping each other deal with the aftermath. And even then, it was more like helping set a broken nose rather than consoling each other. That was pussy shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What shit?” Iggy asks, brows furrowing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You fucking know what shit,” Mickey snaps. “He broke your fucking head open like three times, Igg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess I remember that,” Iggy hums nonchalantly. He looks up, pinched expression pushed to one side of his face like he’s thinking, and then he grins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe dad just liked you better,” Iggy laughs then, smacking Mickey on the chest, grinning like it’s not too close to the horrifying truth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Like, </span>
  </em>
  <span>really wasn’t the word for it. Terry doesn’t fucking like anybody. But he does have favorite targets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,” Mickey hisses, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You should quit whatever shit you’re on now and spare any brain cells you got left.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy’s scatter brain’s always irritated Mickey. He’s always been like that. The very few times Mickey has ever breached the subject of Terry’s terrorizing, Iggy’s always steel walled him with a befuddled expression and a casual shrug, saying he doesn’t remember it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s always thought he was full of shit. Iggy’s done enough drugs in his lifetime to definitely  do some damage, but it sure as shit hasn’t made his brain swiss cheese just yet. Five bucks says if Mickey mentions it, Iggy would go off on a rant about how Mickey had stolen his favorite bike when he was eight and crashed it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it makes Mickey a little jealous of the way Iggy can turn the switch off. Act like it didn’t happen or it doesn’t matter, even if it is all pretend. Mickey can’t stop digging it up, and Iggy’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>out of sight, out of mind </span>
  </em>
  <span>down to an art form.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking whatever,” Mickey mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel a migraine brewing behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath and drops his hand, looking at Iggy. He finds his brother staring at him, nursing the last of the Jack in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A chime comes from Iggy’s pocket, and his brother drains the last of the whiskey before tossing the bottle and reaching into his pocket. He glances down at his phone, lips pursed and pushed forward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘S uncle Ricky. Party’s comin’ this way,” Iggy says as he slips his phone back into his pocket. He doesn’t ask Mickey if he’s staying, because he already knows the answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey nods, taking that as his cue to leave. He thumbs at his bottom lip, glancing back at the street. The rain’s eased up enough that he probably won’t get completely soaked walking home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Mickey mutters, heading down the steps. “Gotta get home anyway before Ian sends out a fucking search party.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets to the bottom step Iggy calls him, “Mickey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him. “Fuck you want now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy tilts his head, his dirty, sandy blond hair clinging to his forehead. “Where would I go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey furrows his brows at him, not sure what he’s getting at. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If not here, where else would I go, stupid,” Iggy drawls at him, brow furrowed. “Mandy’s gone. I ain’t desperate enough to stick it to a Gallagher. Colin says he’s gonna head to Florida soon. Fucking hate hot weather.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey stares at Iggy, who shrugs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where else?” Iggy asks, sounding so small in a way he’s never heard his brother before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey drags his teeth across his lip in thought. Really, out of all the kids, Iggy’s the one that’s always just floated by the most. Colin rarely ever left Terry’s side. Mandy and Mickey, being the youngest Milkoviches, always had each other in some way or had something going on. But Iggy. Fuck knows what Iggy ever got up to whenever he wasn’t following someone’s lead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck if I know,” Mickey says, looking up at his brother. “Fuckin’... try and shack up with that Spanish chick at the gas station. Always asks me how your greasy ass is doin’ whenever I see her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Iggy laughs, looking at Mickey like he’s grown another head, “Spanish chick? Dad would have my fuckin’ ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey looks at him and raises his eyebrows pointedly in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> gesture, except... “Not anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s response must have thrown him off, because Iggy immediately flounders. His smirk slips, his mouth working soundlessly like a fish out of water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey gives him a second for it to sink in, but Iggy doesn’t say anything still, and Mickey really needs to get the hell away from the house. He turns and gives a half hearted wave behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See ya, Igg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a pause, Mickey hears behind him, “Yeah. See ya Mickey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately for Mickey, the rain picks up half way back to the Gallagher house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs the rest of the way, panting out wheezing breaths until he’s shooting up the stairs of the porch and under cover. He stands at the door, pausing to catch his breath. His chest aches, and as he rubs at it, he thinks maybe he should cut the fuck back on smoking. Maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes the door open as he slicks back his damp hair and kicks off his boots by the door. He’s not purposely trying to be quiet, but he’s also not trying to make it too obvious that he’s home, if only to spare himself a few more moments of peace before the ginger storm that is his husband finds him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s not the ginger he’s expecting that greets him as he walks through the threshold. Franny’s sitting by herself in the living room. Her legs are folded under her as she holds a couple of action figures in her hands, humming to herself as she watches a cartoon on the screen of their tv. His shuffling catches her attention and she whips around, and Mickey can feel his chest constrict when she brightens upon seeing him, baring all her little teeth in a face consuming grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi uncle Mickey!” She greets excitedly, and Mickey swears, after the week he’s had, that cheerful grin could be what breaks him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it isn’t fair to Franny, but Mickey’s been giving her a wider birth since the incident in the kitchen. It’s nothing she did, or really has anything to do with her at all, but Mickey’s been tip-toeing his way around her. He still feels extremely guilty about the whole thing, and fucking Debbie and her laser eyes haven’t helped the situation any. He thinks Franny’s noticed, just a little bit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when Franny aims that grin his way, acting like Mickey has never wronged her in her short little life, it makes him feel both relieved and like he just wants to cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tilts her head at him when Mickey fingers a finger to his lips to quiet her down, and he makes his way over to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey kid,” he greets softly, sitting himself on the floor next to her. He tries to keep a couple feet of distance, just to be on the safe side, but Franny hasn’t quite gotten the hang over personal space yet, and she quickly walks over on her knees to sit next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you all wet?” She asks, poking at his soaked jeans that stretch across his knee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s raining,” Mickey snorts, gently swatting her hand away when the poking turns ticklish. “I walked home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’d you go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sniffs, and says, “Went to my dad’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know if he should be talking about anything with Franny, and Mickey still has no idea how to talk to kids in general. But, Franny always seems to be pretty responsive to Mickey’s blunt nature, and she always puts up an attitude against the baby talk that Debbie sometimes uses on her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uncle Ian said your dad made you sad,” Franny says, blinking at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts, picturing Ian trying to gently, but convolutedly explain to Franny why Mickey was gone. Sandy no doubt offering up her own recount of the night before in that candid Milkovich way, just to irk Ian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aunt Sandy said he died.” Well, clearly Mickey hadn’t been too off the mark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nearly smiles when Franny pouts at that, her frown exaggerated on her small face. She then sighs, dropping her toys to the side as she stands, moving in front of Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mommy says my dad died too,” she says, and before Mickey can even think of a response to that, she promptly walks away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s brows furrow at her odd reaction, and thinks maybe someone should get around to showing her appropriate social cues before she ends up as inept as the rest of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He follows Franny with his eyes, raising his eyebrows when she starts to dig through her toybox, throwing her toys out of it that surely get her yelled at later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It dawns on Mickey that he doesn’t know much about Franny’s dad. He wasn’t around the other Gallaghers as much back then as he is now. These days, Mickey gets roped into their shit more often than he doesn’t. He’s never heard her talk about him though, so he figures maybe he died before she was born, or before she could remember. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure what kind of guy he might’ve been, but Mickey can’t help but bitterly think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky kid.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He then rolls his eyes on his own drama, which he silently blames on being around Ian way too long. Anyone would be lucky to have a sweet kid like Franny around. It’s definitely made Mickey feel like he’s less of a fuck up, up until a few days ago anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lost in his own thoughts, Mickey doesn’t realize Franny’s finished making her mess until she’s standing right in front of him again, shoving a stuffed Ninja Turtle at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the stuffed animal, taking in the frayed seams and the purple band around its head and the missing eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Donatello, huh?” Mickey questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Franny smiles big and nods, “Uh huh!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess I’ll allow it,” Mickey says, thumbing at the thread where the black button eye’s gone missing. “Always been more of a Raphael guy myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’tello’s purple, so he’s cooler,” says Franny sagely, giving Mickey a ‘duh’ kind of look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Mickey says, stretching out the word and squinting at Franny, wondering if it’s worth having a debate over which Ninja Turtle is better and why it’s Raphael. Instead, he says, “So, why are you giving him to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Franny just shrugs, dropping herself back beside Mickey. “‘Cause he’s my favorite, and gives good hugs when I’m sad.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey blinks at that, glancing between Franny and the stuffed toy. And he’s not going to hug the derpy looking thing or anything, even as both Franny and the toy stare at Mickey expectantly. But he’d be lying if the gesture didn’t make the deep ache in his chest that much more pronounced, making it more and more difficult to ignore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to take in a deep breath when he feels the pressure start behind his eyes. He’s not going to cry in front of Franny, he’s traumatized the kid enough lately. He does give her a small, watery smile, lifting a hand to pat her gingery head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Fran,” he croaks. She smiles brightly at him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit together quietly, as quiet as a hyper toddler can be as she goes back to playing with her toys. Every now and then she’ll turn to Mickey and explain the storyline she’s got going on between her two action figures and Mickey just hums in response, going on along with it, completely lost in the explanation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t long before his damp clothes start to get really uncomfortable as they start to dry against his skin. He starts to get up from the floor, wincing and groaning as his body cracks in various places. His body hasn’t ever been in great shape, he’s been beating on it since he was a kid, and he’s sure the way he’d slept last night hadn’t helped any.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey looks around the house when he stands, then down at Franny who’s glued to the television. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you got someone watching you?” He asks, belatedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mommy should be up soon,” Franny says, keeping her eyes on the screen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums in his throat, glancing at the digital clock below the tv. It’s still pretty early morning, but not too early that someone shouldn’t be coming down the stairs in the next half hour or so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. You know the rules,” Mickey says, gently tapping Franny on the leg with his toes to get her attention. When she looks up at him, he points at her, raising a serious brow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Franny rolls her eyes, and starts to count on her own fingers begrudgingly, “Don’t answer the door, even if it’s grandpa Frank--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--Especially if it’s Frank--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She continues like Mickey hadn’t interrupted, “No oven, no fire, no wild animals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey isn’t sure when that last one was added, but he isn’t going to dispute it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good enough,” he says, giving Franny one last playful noogie before heading his way upstairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to keep his footsteps quiet at first, but Mickey’s never been light on his feet, and he gives up halfway, stomping up the stairs his usual way. Fuck it if he wakes anybody, he just wants out of his cold, wet clothes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses at the accordion door, though, just for a second. He tries to peek in through the small gap between the door frame and the door, but it isn’t big enough to see more than the window and the foot of the bed. Mickey clicks his tongue, then slips his fingers into the gap, pushing the door open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Immediately, he’s met with wide green eyes, the phone in Ian’s hands dropping to the bed where he’s sitting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Ian breathes, rubbing a hand over his forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Sup,” Mickey says coolly, not bothering to close the door behind him as he walks into the room. He starts to pull off his clothes, throwing them into a corner with a wet flop. He can feel the eyes on his back as he turns toward the dresser.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where were you?” Ian asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey glances behind Ian, licking at his bottom lip. He turns back, looking blindly through the pulled out drawer for some dry clothes. Mickey shrugs, “Out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must’ve left early this morning,” says Ian slowly. Mickey can hear the conspiratorial tone that lies beneath, making him sigh. “You just getting back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mick.” Ian calls, voice clipped. “I woke up at four in the morning to take a piss and you were gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey closes his eyes and kicks off his old boxers, slipping on a pair of new ones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like you said, left early,” Mickey mumbles, stepping into a pair of too long pajama pants and shrugging on an old blue tank top.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the bed creak underneath Ian, but Mickey doesn’t face him yet. Instead, he fiddles with a pair of balled up socks, pretending like he’s still getting dressed. A clatter against wood catches his attention, and he looks over to see his phone on top of the dresser, the battery symbol showing a dangerously low percentage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Left your phone too?” He hears Ian say, a lot closer behind him than he’d realized.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Ian snaps. He grabs Mickey by the hips and swings him around, and Mickey doesn’t fight it. He stares at the annoyed vein he can see at the side of Ian’s neck when he faces him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why does it always have to be like pulling teeth with you?” Ian huffs at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey bites at his bottom lip, giving himself a second before he meets Ian’s eye, raising his eyebrows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you just fucking ask what you wanna fuckin’ ask?” Mickey shoots back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian purses his lips and twists them to the side, letting go with a sucking sound when he speaks, “Where did you go?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rubbing at the space between his eyebrows, Mickey glances away and says, “You already know, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really,” Ian sighs, “I mean, Sandy told me about your dad…” Ian trails, and Mickey feels a hand slide up his shoulder and press to the side of his neck. “Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making, but he’s sure whatever he looks like, it’s the reason Ian suddenly goes gentle with him. The hand rubs against the tense cording in his neck, but when Ian tries to get Mickey to face him again, Mickey pulls away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Terry’s fucking dead. And you’re late breaking out the good whiskey Lip’s got hidden in the pantry,” Mickey deadpans, dodging Ian’s hand as he tries to touch him again. He rounds Ian’s form, heading toward the bed. “We can head over to Party City later. Throw a See You in Hell party bigger than any welcome home he ever got,” Mickey rants as he drops onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Ian doesn’t speak, Mickey sighs and drops his hands, glancing up at Ian. His husband’s got a pensive look on his face, brows furrowed like he’s not sure what to make of Mickey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian shrugs and scratches at the back of his head. “You’re upset.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey splutters, looking at Ian, and then everywhere but Ian. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” he says. “Caught me off guard. Never thought I’d see the day, alright? Figured the old bastard would live forever on fucking spite alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck and quickly asks, “You planning on making breakfast any time soon, or is it gonna be coffee and stale cereal again?” Mickey asks, not even bothering to conceal the fact that he’s very deliberately trying to change the subject.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Ian doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Mickey directly and asks, “I can make breakfast in a minute. I wanna talk about where you went last night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inwardly, Mickey groans in frustration. There are things in Ian that Mickey’s never found in anyone else. So very early on, Ian had managed to get under Mickey’s skin and sink his claws in him deep. It’s the reason Mickey’s never ever thought much about the idea of forever, until the day Ian looked at him and asked for it. And all the messy bullshit after the fact aside, Mickey thinks there is not one person on Earth that could make him feel the way that Ian makes him feel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets him, he pushes him, and like right now, he irritates the fuck out of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is fucking stupid” Mickey snaps, waving his arms out dramatically. “Where the fuck were you last night,” he mocks. “You sound like a fuckin’ paranoid housewife. Gonna accuse me of bangin’ Karen from the P.T.A. bake sale next?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want you to fucking talk to me about this, Mickey. Your fucking piece of shit dad just died, and then you fucked off somewhere instead of coming to me,” Ian snaps back, voice raised, cracking on the last word. “I wanted you to come to me. Isn’t that what being married is about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? You wanted me to wake you up in the middle of the night cryin’ over my fuckhead dad?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If that’s what you needed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need--” Mickey barks, waving an aborted movement in front of him. “I wasn’t actually--” He starts again, then clenches his hands slowly and drops them to his thighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a stretch of silence between them, like Ian’s waiting for Mickey to continue, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t even know where to begin. All he knows is that there’s a million different things floating around in his head and weighing on his chest, and he doesn’t have a word for any of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always been quick witted with words, mostly insults and quick quips, but when it comes down to the real shit, Mickey falls incredibly short. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s something he’s admittedly self conscious about, because he knows words mean a hell of a lot to Ian. He knows Ian wants him to open up, but Mickey’s codex is extremely limited, leaving them both even more frustrated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence must have gone on too long, because Ian finally breaks it first. He walks over to Mickey, standing in front of him, then crouching down to meet Mickey eye to eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Ian says softly. He reaches up and presses his hand over the nape of Mickey’s neck, and Mickey lets him. “I know this isn’t easy, Mick. I just need to know you’re okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey’s response is out of his mouth before he can think about it, “I’m fucking fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Ian doesn’t look convinced. His face falls, pinching like he’s in pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mickey,” he breathes, and it’s only when Ian’s fingers gently brush against his cheek does Mickey realize there’s tears there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Mickey croaks and he leans back away. He can feel embarrassment heat the back of his neck. He turns his head as he sniffs and wipes at his nose with the back of his knuckles, trying to hide it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Ian doesn’t let him get far, instead he whispers a soft curse and pulls Mickey toward him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey resists, at first, tensing against Ian’s gentle coaxing to get Mickey close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Mickey mutters, swallowing hard and trying to push down the torrent whirling in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But because Ian never listens to a goddamn word Mickey says, he doesn’t let him pull away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he says, “Enough with the macho shit, Mick, just come here,” he says, tone leaving no argument. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Mickey doesn’t move, until Ian uses that soft, pleading tone that he knows gets him every time. “Mick, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when Mickey turns slowly, catching Ian’s eye, his face lined with worry, Mickey suddenly feels so fucking tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tired of trying to keep everything down. It feels like a fucked up game of Gopher, shoving one thing down only for something else to spring it’s ugly head up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s tired of pretending like he doesn’t feel completely fucked up and fucked over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And a part of him still feels like he’s failing, because he’d rather not have Ian deal with this shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when Ian stares back at him, eyes a little wet too, it isn’t a look of obligation or even more horrifying--pity--for Mickey. It’s a desperate look that Mickey knows he’s felt numerous times before. It’s something he knows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey nods his head, barely a movement, and he sinks forward as Ian wraps his arms around him. Mickey buries his face into Ian’s neck, and after a moment, he slides his hands up Ian’s back, holding tight, his fingers clutching at the thin fabric of Ian’s shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t break down and sob, but he lets a few tears go against Ian’s neck, burying his face deeper as he sniffs and breathes heavily. It’s a slow progression, but Mickey melts into Ian until Ian feels like the most solid thing Mickey’s felt in months. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not fuckin’... crying for him,” Mickey mutters, his voice sounding wrecked even muffled by Ian’s neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Ian whispers back. “I know that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I went to the house,” Mickey hears himself say. “Talked to Iggy, and he said it happened there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels Ian tense at Mickey’s words, the hand rubbing light circles between his shoulder blades stilling between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just wanted to see…” Mickey sighs. “I don’t fucking know. The prick fucked us all up, and he just gets to fuckin’ leave it just like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanted closure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey groans into Ian’s shoulder. “Fuckin’... I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It makes sense. He’s tormented you all your life, it makes sense to want something for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey snorts depreciatively, “Maybe I just wanted a chance to kick his ugly fuckin’ face in before he croaked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think I would’ve liked that too,” Ian says softly. He continues after a moment, pensively saying, “You don’t have to pretend to be okay about this, Mick. I don’t know how I’ll react when Frank dies.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ Frank.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean it. I’d like to think I’d barely bat an eye, but I don’t know,” Ian mutters. Slowly, he pulls back just enough to face Mickey. “Would you do this for me if I react a little crazy?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That makes Mickey almost laugh, just a little bit, because that’s the easiest question he could answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at Ian, eyes searching. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, course I would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ian smiles. “I know you would,” he adds, thumbing across Mickey’s cheek. “We get to take care of each other.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey grunts at that, nodding his head as he looks down. It’s still a little jarring, a little awkward, letting himself have this kind of softness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And just for the record,” Ian says then, making Mickey grunt when he pulls him back into the hug, “He’s gone and you’re still here. I think that means something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay,” Mickey breathes, stifling a laugh. “Enough of this after school special shit, it’s getting kinda gay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re gay, Mick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey hums, squirming in Ian’s arms. “Not this gay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian tightens his arms around Mickey the more he tries to squirm away, until they both end up on top of the covers, their embrace looking more and more like a wrestling match. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How gay are we, Mickey?” Ian asks, grinning down at him when he’s got Mickey’s arms pinned over his head. “‘Cause this is lookin’ pretty gay right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey arches a brow up at Ian, his thighs wrapping around Ian’s waist. He squeezes tight, earning a heavy gasp out of Ian. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Promise to make me breakfast after, and I’ll show you how fuckin’ gay we can get.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snickering, Ian leans down, stealing a kiss from Mickey. “Fucking deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey presses his lips to Ian’s, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because these days, with Ian by his side, it is. Terry’s passing might’ve gotten a last little dig in, but maybe Ian has a point, Mickey’s the one that’s still here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, close the fucking door at least!” Debbie screeches as she passes by, the floating door clacking shut behind them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey throws up a finger towards the door, unseeing, and smiles happily when Ian pulls him closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In late August, a week after his twenty-sixth birthday, Mickey finds himself sitting on the back steps, smoking while he bakes in the summer sun. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d never admit it to him, but Mickey’s kind of glad he’d let Ian nag him into wearing sunblock with him and the kids, or else he’d be doing his best impression of a lobster right about now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey squints against the brightness of the day, wiping away the sweat that’s gathered on his forehead. He brushes back a few locks of hair that have fallen out of its style. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hair’s cut short into a similar style that he used to have. The haircut is another thing Mickey has let Ian nag him into the day before his birthday. He’d given in after Ian started to get at him about looking his best on his birthday--not that he gave much of a shit--letting Ian do the honors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a bad cut and it suits Mickey fine. And if a couple of his cowlicks stand up here and there, at least Mickey’s set some cash aside from the wedding fund to get some of the good hair gel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shriek catches Mickey’s attention, followed by twin laughter. He looks up to see Franny in her borrowed swimming trunks and tank top, and Liam, running away from the spray of the hose. Ian’s running up behind them and drenching both kids with his thumb on the hose, and Mickey can tell from his perch that even after slathering himself in sun block, his shoulders are starting to turn pink. He’s gonna burn like a motherfucker. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes Mickey snicker to himself as he takes a drag off his cigarette. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips upturn in a soft smile, because these days he’s finding less and less reasons not to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The backyard is quickly becoming a mess of muddy puddles, and Ian’s going to be real bitchy later when the sunburn sets in, Franny is definitely gonna be overtired, and the next water bill is gonna make Debbie scream the house down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But if that’s the worst that Mickey’s gonna have to deal with, he counts it as a win.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some days it still feels a little heavy. There are still ghosts in the walls, and Mickey still looks over his shoulder now and then, swearing that he hears a man yelling behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he’s got Ian. He’s got family. He’s got everything he’s ever wanted. Well earned and fucking won.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you laughing at, uncle Mickey?” He hears Ian chime through his thoughts, the only warning Mickey gets before he’s getting a face full of cool water, soaking him down to the knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck, Gallagher!” Mickey squawks, putting his hand up to block the stream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oops!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey wipes at his face when Ian turns the hose away, glancing down forlornly at his water logged cigarette still between the fingers of his other hand. He sighs and flicks it onto the pavement, turning his glare to his husband. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oops my fucking ass,” Mickey grunts, standing and trudging down the wood steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Franny screams delightedly when Mickey starts coming their way, her little feet skidding in the mud as she smartly tries to hightail it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gimme the hose, tough guy,” Mickey taunts when he gets closer to Ian. He then glances at the hose in Ian’s hand, raising a coy brow when he looks back up toward him. “That’s a lot of length to handle, could show you a few tricks,” Mickey grins, ignoring the miserably groaned<em> “Oh boy,”</em> from Liam a few feet away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ian rolls his eyes at Mickey’s corny flirting, but Mickey knows he’s got him where he wants him when Ian smiles at him, lips pressed together, upturned until his smile lines show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Ian hums. His fingers brush Mickey’s hip when he’s close enough. “Thought I knew all your tricks by now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mickey shrugs. “Not even close, Gallagher,” he says, voice a purr. “Got a few things up my sleeve that could really make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>blow.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the last word, Mickey makes a break for the hose, grabbing it out of Ian’s lax hand and thumbing the top of it, shooting a stream of water up under Ian’s chin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mick!” Ian sputters, catching a mouthful of water while Mickey cackles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of shouting and laughter soon follows, the ruckus echoing across the entire block.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And a few hours later, the water bill will run up even higher when everyone showers off the mud. Franny will whine and refuse to eat her dinner for some nonsensical reason until she passes out on the floor by her toys. Ian will collapse beside Mickey in bed smelling like aloe lotion and grumbling under his breath when the sheets stick to his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Mickey will fall asleep next to his husband, in the house he shares with his family, and he’ll have everything he needs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>11x06 really put a fire under my ass to finish this after struggling for a bit. Mickey Milkovich you have my heart.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The second part is here! I fed this story after midnight and there's no stopping it now. We're only at the halfway point, so I'm cutting it into two chapters.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A couple of things:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ian and Mickey still have a lot of unresolved trauma, even if canon doesn't want to acknowledge that. Being committed to each other doesn't resolve all issues, and that's part of what this story is about too. That said, they're not going to fight endlessly, physically or verbally through the whole story. The fight is popping the seal, so to speak, on getting the two of them to finally see eye to eye and reach an understanding.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's headcanon on my part, but I think Mickey's mannerisms when it comes to showing affection is based a lot on what he experienced from his mom. Things like fond insults, and silly nicknames like "sleepyface," comes from her. She was a young mom, so I feel like she was sisterly to her kids, as well as motherly. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And I don't want to get too heavy handed about it, but I think Mickey had a complicated relationship with his mom, especially in his teen years, when Terry started to really mold Mickey into what he wanted. I thought it'd make an interesting contrast. And we get to have some sneak peeks into Mickey's life growing up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Anyway, everyone left such nice comments on the first part, and I really thank you guys! It makes writing easier. Let me know what you think so far, if you want. You can also find me on <a href="https://charlemint.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oh, and, reading back on the first part, I noticed some weird spaces and punctuation. Not sure how it happened but it should be all fixed now.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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